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Letter #26

August 12, 2011

 

it begins in the forest.

pine needles miss their targets

a branch grumbles

then the slap of wings

as eyes lock

fight or flight?

there is both.

circling , circling

the air is pungent with sweat and primeval

tumescent fingers reach for paper

the stroke is  at first drunkenly , slips

skin shivers like a horse in winter

a  flush stains  the skin so denuded

crisscross , double-cross lines cutting  the pulp

breath blots the ink unsteady

lighter and darker, turning twisted

two hearts locking

horns

fight or flight?

then, sly-like

a chaste wall descending

the square-footage  a chasm

the air a  mirror

his movements  her limbs

her weight his thoughts

the seconds: strung reveries

confessing  silence-

it ends at church.

 

 

 

 

 

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