Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The wind slams doors
in this house, makes meals
out of dust.

Pushes space around
with its fingers.

Drives through, opens windows,
riffles blinds and speaks
in a full tongue: wake up

you are new again, don't you see
your garden outside the window, grown lush
by steady hands. A tall flower
reaches high above
the window sill, threading sunlight.

Vines protrude through the glass.

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