12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice


possibility opens wider
in memory
in topographical distance
in the ink under those same fingernails
that traced the italics
of your face
the inverted commas of your eyebrows
the scripted L of your nose
those very fingers that parted your beard
into two streets
trying to find the boundaries in poetry
where the only spaces
at the time were fractures,
risking the ink catching fire
igniting nostalgia in those paper dry spaces
I thread the flower through
a yellow dialect
only the sun can speak


Tell me wotcha reckon

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This entry was posted on April 29, 2020 by in Poetry.

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