The same way a friend’s hand
laid with fresh instinct on my arm
roots like pollen down to the seed
from which my heart grows—
the pressure of my foot
against the strange terrain
of my floor, awakens me
to the wild fleshy novelty
of being some kind of a
living human thing.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
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