Monday, July 19, 2010

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Buses in the Spring

I can still see white tiles - black grout
bottle of soda tucked inside an arm.
The many heads, eyes and legs
pushing, pulling luggage to doors.
Impatient huffing cold weights and hands.

"I have nothing left to say to you."

There is always a mind's eye.
A feeling or memory can haunt 
and brittle love.
Tarnished scorn tic tac toe
a belly of black hissing words 
can claim anything innocent...
choke hold of misunderstandings.

I haven't understood 
the isolation or self hate
that seemed to pile in groves
beside my legs.
There was never a child
just an open eye waiting
for what has finally come.


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