Tuesday, December 16, 2008

this is not a poem about longing.

I am done with longing,
says my pink swirling brain
and gnarled lungs.

My heart argues back,
hurling retorts, smashing glasses,
wheezing between its stammering.

do I stop and collect my cracked knuckles?
do I stand as still as a wide-eyed doe on the roadside?

Do I wait for the crash,
or leap back into the underbrush?

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