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From: “Letters to my Muse”

February 2, 2009

“I taste, your tear, but it is faint. Standing at the base of a wall in the darkness at 9:00 in the middle of March, slight chill, feet bare. Looking east and west, I cannot see around, and you are across to the north. In the first pocket of my favorite pair of worn jeans, I find a familiar hairpin, in the second a piece of paper. Each cupped in left and right palm, now pulled from the denim confines. Familiar hairpin, glimmers as the lamb of spring. I toss it over to hear it be used and dream of the locks it will hold. Silken locks, deep brown, I remember. But, the empty sound tastes like your tear; I unfold the paper. It tells me nothing of interest.”

penn

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From → Poetry/Writing

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