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Rewriting Histories
Open the chapter of swimming. Under the June evening
sky, in the indifferent Erie waters,
the rippling continues where eyes cannot
see. Sometimes, closed eyes are like a grain of sand
in currents so far away.
Circumnavigation
It can be strange to live
where the landscape speaks
for the damned.
Erie is strange like that.
Even the reflection
glistening off angelic waves
of a bay called Misery tells you everything
will eventually decay into
particles floating in the stagnant
Graveyard Pond where just living
makes another urban legend.
Reason for this Poem
It starts in the discomfort of a moment
adding up to enough
you seek solace in whispering
words no one will hear,
your breath.
I Know I Already Told You
I just intend
some of your
attention. An intention is
clearly written, so do
not question what this says. I am telling you
quite clearly, that
this is what I mean:…
Waltzing in Tides of Salt
“Waltzing before dinner” is what
Matilda always dreams of, being from
a disjointed era far removed from
the days when people waltzed. She
never gives much thought to anything
other than where the next drink will come
from. Her eyes are the mystery of
an unnameable blue which refuses color
to the oceans, leaving them only the salt
of broken days. She dances to
nothing, and you gaze at her graceful
box steps, thinking her
music is a sadness you recognize yourself.
Open the chapter of swimming. Under the June evening
sky, in the indifferent Erie waters,
the rippling continues where eyes cannot
see. Sometimes, closed eyes are like a grain of sand
in currents so far away.
Circumnavigation
It can be strange to live
where the landscape speaks
for the damned.
Erie is strange like that.
Even the reflection
glistening off angelic waves
of a bay called Misery tells you everything
will eventually decay into
particles floating in the stagnant
Graveyard Pond where just living
makes another urban legend.
Reason for this Poem
It starts in the discomfort of a moment
adding up to enough
you seek solace in whispering
words no one will hear,
your breath.
I Know I Already Told You
I just intend
some of your
attention. An intention is
clearly written, so do
not question what this says. I am telling you
quite clearly, that
this is what I mean:…
Waltzing in Tides of Salt
“Waltzing before dinner” is what
Matilda always dreams of, being from
a disjointed era far removed from
the days when people waltzed. She
never gives much thought to anything
other than where the next drink will come
from. Her eyes are the mystery of
an unnameable blue which refuses color
to the oceans, leaving them only the salt
of broken days. She dances to
nothing, and you gaze at her graceful
box steps, thinking her
music is a sadness you recognize yourself.