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([personal profile] grayrose Mar. 20th, 2009 06:33 pm)
Reconstructed from bones up, we will be colorless -
skin to cover anger no more
and nothing to make us strangers
not the way I trill my r’s, or the way
these goosebumps on your skin remind me of frogs.

Truth is in the bleached bones, and life
is a kleptomaniac of truth. Lend it a hand, you say,
but what of the forsythia? In winter

it stood bare in its bones, and I didn’t parse it
sun-yellow

in my dim hours

From: [identity profile] mer-moon.livejournal.com


Oh, this is quiet lovely, and reminds me a little bit of Lisel Mueller's poetry. Which is kind've high praise.
.

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