With dust

your deft grip emblazoned my wrist and face

in a brand

, the hot smell of a burning.


My wanting did more to destroy me than you ever could

with dreams, and fantasies, litling phrases

and the





It was the the day before yesterday I thought about

crying, and how it was like making liquid of a tree

where the growth of branches just

floods away, and then




I was reminded of pruning shears.

After a growth has been removed, another so easily comes back

(the tall sky reaching ones are called suckers)

bearing no seeming memory of the excision,

but the history is evident.


I was reminded of sand.

How it gets into your shoes and hair,


and the sound it makes with the shore.


Oh, and then there’s computers.


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