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on poetic composition

my word isn’t blood or milk

spilt or symbolical of it.


i’m cut by what’s

remembered, what is not

& the gap, a flat windy lot

that rings like wooden chimes.


for days, as mice play in the cracks

between my toes & fingers,

i lie in the hollows or high

billowing like wheat the colour of hair.


there’s nothing to it – the massive meditations

of sky & mountain

where i hear myself, think.

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