Other Lines

Storms that blow around,
it’s not right, now…

There’s no use, way
before–if I had done my time,

go your way, instead of more…
There’s no harming me

anymore, I have all the ghosts
shoved down my throat

that any vessel can hold,
like a bowl set to glaze over.

Lightning, or the rolling between
waves, between us, there’s

a reason all the lakes and rivers
flowing through the country

aren’t salt–some of us can’t stand
the stinging, the bitter after-taste:

robbed protection,dried organs,
crunched hair beneath waves…


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