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In by Chris on November 22, 2010 at 6:46 pm

When I became aware of the thousand daily deaths
like slugs in the bins of my life,
I first tried to scrape them away
with incessant fingernails.
No use – in canyons and alleyways I slipped on them,
dark like shapelessness,
never crawling,
remnants of the blind night
that stayed all day.
the deaths cropped up,
leftovers of foul journeys and fallen branches.
I searched for the source of salts and chalks,
childhood remedies lost in manhood.
Even my words seemed stopgaps,
flights of fancy.
Only my imagination knew
where the living land
was free of the scourge.


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