21 June 2011


Here is an old poem of mine, which I'm posting for no particular reason:


Buds throb red.

Cold raindrops cling
to bare branches
after the first
April storm.

My fingertips swelling,
my body pulses:

the center
of this old wound,
still fresh.

Still, I don’t
pull off my gloves--

There are no leaves
from this tree.

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