local 606

all the poems become

about my son,
because my son is every song.
my fingers are polished, long
stones; runes ticking on some meanings.

i remember him back to the first kind of way. and, it’s painful, isn’t it?
it’s terminal.
yes, it’s done.

but it swoons, just, to let it ride
this time, and don’t look away. the remembrances are small
sentiments coined by a mental embrace.
they’re offered to the heart.
[to the soul]

my spire, my great blue
love in the center. and in the beginning,
each day, we pause of worship.

you keep me from a rock to make me
the helicoid bloom: opening and quietly
opening in the chamber
of all living conduits.

IMG_7916 2

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This entry was published on February 7, 2014 at 5:11 pm. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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