Tuesday, December 12, 2017


I know my footprints make
achy commas in the snow

Icy shibboleths of everywhere 
I've been, when breath catches.

I keep finding these reminders--
the plainsong of my wandering

as though to say: now just pause
'cos--no one's ever here that long.

So commas--broken signs of all
kinds: earned, separate, or set off--

Of course I've known forever how
I am guilty of love--never list me alone.


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