Sincerely Yours,

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I’m not going to write a love poem
Or preach about Gods and Generals,
Existential angst
No exposure of deep wells
Drilling at bits of my soul
Smiting valves to the heart
In the pretense of being tortured
Directing with orange flares and whistling tongues
Though I find those who can fascinating
Their bodies cracking like spines of books
Snapped vertebras clicking bone one piece at a time
Joints relieved as their pages take flight
Leaving an aftertaste of air and sugar

I keep love to myself
Dole it in abundance to the residents under my roof
Those beyond the layers of language, thread and glue
Beyond the tides of moody swings with aching chains
They know themselves
I am superstitious enough to be quiet
For fear of losing a healthy streak
Fear no library would house enough words

I wrap myself in ink blankets
Raise my head to find time swallowed
The walls winded like sailed sheets
We have that in common, don’t we?
Beach readers bewildered at being adrift
But with the swell of birds, the feathered words
Sometimes
Do not reach me
Not today

Maybe tomorrow, though I doubt it so
Even when I feel I’ve said too much
It is hardly ever
Enough

Of this, I am sincere.

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