Tuesday, April 20, 2010


Driving the meaning
as hard as I can into the
wood that keeps it,

I nevertheless insist
on being the one I am.
It's the same old similar

story: No one's ready
to leave. On the outer
boulevards, cars careen

into subtler ways of
solving some of the riddles.
Smudges appear all

over the place, replacing
the hands that held them.
Truth becomes this hole

hopes get funneled into.
An irresistible heaviness
in trees remains the same.

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