open

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you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,

 

here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and

 

tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs

 

to follow down

this crooked path.

 

you create your own

paucity of time, which

 

is always

just enough,

 

just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you

 

dig through hidden

portholes, running

 

straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;

 

swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.

 

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light house

some people never open

their windows; they don’t

even know the light in their

own house: on a hill, up a wish,

 

down a well, over the bows

and arrows of this slant-death

that comes too quickly

and without discovery.

 

they don’t know the planes of

their own ocean floors, the jig-

saw spread and tongue-in-groove

lilt of sloping wood where you can

 

lie flat for hours and breathe

deeply for the first time in your

life: buried briefly far and away

from the shiny hammer of terror.

 

if you never attend to your

fear—to the full tilt and lift of the

continent sheets; the vast forms of ice:

the spite—you can never attend to your love.