dying on the bank
of a river which no longer flows
north to the St. Lawrence
this slow denial
made possible by men like me
blocking my own egress
to the sea
the silt of me
lay buried in my path
left as if by shedding skin
to mark the course once blazed by others
only to fill the bottom
erasing both channel and escape
to the sea
Sunday, January 18, 2009
the sea
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1 comments:
Your misery is unique, but one i understand.
I could fuck to your poetry. It is that good.
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