14.ii.22
772
3.45
sad that one place isn’t
another
catching breath
and letting go
(a rehearsal)
puff by inch by stroke
dodging too
years shelved
and who’s to care?
vines are up a tree
voices lose themselves
it’s absence run wild
yet bliss with
sad in the skin
when sleep never comes
I am lost in the old tracks
grown to weather
mistletoe damp moulded in
rain comes for to tell of the roof
I walk until the words come
try to make myself smaller
find I can only expand
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