Day 24
a clean sheet of paper hides every sin, each fumble and misspelling, so you think God spoke to me clean …
a clean sheet of paper hides every sin, each fumble and misspelling, so you think God spoke to me clean …
I wonder if the beams from streetlights singe your fine needles, exhaust you, if only true dark can heal you
rushing her work, damp snow plunges through night air, knowing full well her fate is to dissolve and river-away come …
when you tell of youth, and risk, and being bold, you do not reveal the cloister in your heart — …
is it a god or a black cat that crosses my path in these woods? am I cursed, sainted, lost, …
that dark corner may recall years past as it sighs – drowsy, in a haze – that I was here …
I thought I had ripped that vine down dead, but it grows on, out of reach, even in winter, mocking …
a word for soft green with deep crevices fluttering in dark, yellow-gold sunlight, unburdened by wet snow
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