some poem

Stingray



we aren't words
we aren't animals
pity we're grasping,
needing, ing-ing things

maybe we're not even
things
a tree is a pile of ash
a pretty rock
sooner or later

we cruise the bottom
of each thesis
bump against argument
sometimes heal

i see what has become
i am hearing a word
and it can become anything

paint the sky
bubble water
die in my arms

die in my arms

be silent


~


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