by Tristan
I am the
undertow,
the current under me.
I plug my nose against
the water,
the womb water,
the cement-mixing water,
sinking into
me.
I hug my knees
against the
sunshine noise:
The sacred is reduced
to stage fright
and
water-logged newspapers,
washed up on the curb.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
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