Friday, September 09, 2011

Glen Helen (Lost)

I imagined myself walking, 
morning made itself a hike
No one knows where I am.
So no one can help me now

(if they wanted to)
If today I woke up 
some other died 
in my place

(with my face)
These roots for rock
lean on mossy claws.
Open, distance unlocks:

the wrong turn every time 
and lengthens why I'm here.
Become beautiful. Unreliable
--like leaves aged and plaid.


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