November 30, 2011

tending fields...




prince of a thousand skedaddles

pushing myself
in vaults
lemmings
sledgehammer
my faults
the price of gravity
is your wings sir
they say
jumping in
and I laugh
without a penny to sin
because I know they
aren't needed
to send me
or even to fly into
for that matter
what I fly for
in and out of all
these spaces
in one atom
of love
in the wide circle
of doves
whose little shoves
go a long ways
to untie the ends
of my hanging tree
my cut glass
crawling
gnawing
to be free
to fall
all the way
inside my
rakish
self
again

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