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Drafts, Poetry

Our Language

It always begins with words heard or words

read or words floating about in the air
through slight rain or angelic snow.
We speak and we do not speak.
Both are made of our language.
“Beginning” is a misnomer; a little means
to categorize and calculate
effects of placing something in a place. That act
of bringing something somewhere. Everything
so out of place and suddenly in place or
just the sound of dust settling in the shadow of past footprints.
Not the inexact as subject, but as the air that we breathe.
Become a part of the city; become flight and fight and sleep
and wake and grains of wood under the floorboards you swear are rotting.
Tables and chairs can always find new homes. Beings
are never at home; never within nor without, always straddling
that line that keeps shifting
with each and every step forward. You.
You pool yourself into old songs
about heartbreak that broke
before you were born. You.
You become this fractured kaleidoscope
both focus and futility.


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