The spring and I are strangers now, extending hungry glances  through fat green stems and the blush of fallen berries— those beloved friends  of the pilgrim’s foot.   More and more I slip into the soil to read the pages of rock.  Retreating to the muddy infinite, I spy the fleshy leviathan,  earthworm tonguing a

Untitled: A Poem

I thiNk of love More than aNythiNg else. My skin always Bruised very Easily It is the oNly Physical RepReseNtatioN of How My MiNd experieNces life. My soul TurNs Black aNd Blue as easily as My skin Does. From the smallest Bumps, EvEn a Good thinG If pRessed too lonG, too strongly. The iNk emBedded

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