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Babosas

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.
Insignificant,
insistent,
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,
flood-holders,
flights of fancy.
Only my imagination knew
where the living land
was free of the scourge.

 

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