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Old Poem, heralding the arrival of embryonic new ones…

July 27, 2009

Iceland 

 

I

 

I would like, once more,

To draw my tongue in

Ripples on your hoared water.

Lying low and puddled

 

In moss lawns and

Butter knifed in glass

My fingers, clotted with black sand

Could rake up scree –

 

Carve me up,

And opened out

like a salted slug

I would show you my dirty red heart.

 

Things are, presently, a little tough…But nevertheless onwards and upwards.

Here’s to an upcoming vacation, new writings and freedom.

 

Love,

Mizichan

xoxoxoxoxo

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