Tuesday, January 20, 2015


Breath here
is hung paper
framed by ribs
and made half-radiant
by the light.
It's now the moon
that illuminates
your shadow.
Dusk with wings
that ached in flight,
struggled against wind
and ice. The cold panic
flickering -
frozen reeds, blue cinders
of glass.
What  have  you come
to tell me,  what song
 on this screen
of bone and sigh?
Maybe nothing
but who you are.
Bruised woman
in the twilight,
of someone
who has not forsaken
her skill to survive.

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