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To Open Up . . .

A book, any book, of poetry, then your notebook, and write your dialogue with what you read. If you like writing and you would like some booster sessions, feel free to email me! 

Contact: Text


It is ten o’ the bone

and the heart’s nightingale

is singing her last song

in the dark.

Loud dust ticks in teeth

and tocks in the hot wet

manacle of her mouth.

The hour hand

gyrates at her wrist—

the minute hand accosts air

and pokes at sky

in a wicked motion

under the everlasting sign

that lives and loves largest

above all things--

while the second hand

pulses sluggishly round

the world's slow sphere.

Come to me in an hour,

at 11 o’ the bone,

come to me in the marrow

of the most innocent child.

We will dance into the wrong times,

the times that are neither

wrong nor right,

our bodies the only timepieces

that at dawn

ring no alarm,

urge nothing to crush

the great silence 

only we can know.

This poem was short-listed for Aesthetica Magazine's Creative Writing Poetry Award, 2020.

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