Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Mourning Before Dawn

fear has a habit of
waking the sleeping dog
who lays whimpering
with legs engaged in motion

the sand of yesterday's
beach walk
lingers in your eyes and ears
like a salt

this is what we have come to
taking turns pacing
the soil in this Eden

of our own creation
like foolish miniature gods
going through the motions,
manufacturing a destiny

written in stone
before we were ever plucked
out of the cosmos
and our possiblity existed

in an unreleased egg.

I forgot to think what it
means to jump the track
and drive through an open field
still asleep, undisturbed

clearing throat
unable to consider anything
but the inevitability of spring.


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