Saturday, October 4, 2014

Sometimes I long to be the woodpile,
Cut-apart trees soon to be smoke,
Or, even the smoke itself,
Sinewy ghost of ash and air, going
Wherever I want to, at least for a while.
Neither inside nor out,
Neither lost nor home, no longer

A shape or a name, I’d pass through
All the broken windows of the world.
It’s not a wish for consciousness to end.




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