poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:023
ANNALYNN HAMMOND : Because We're Dying
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Old Thing
I'm sitting with her at my desk, such a beautiful woman, long blonde hair, young, shapely, lithe and lively, Swedish. She's in from the home office helping me to understand and work the new Newsletter Database. (I still find these new-fangled electronic communications tool befuddling.) and she's leaning over me, working my mouse and keyboard, so close, her sweet scent distracting me. Newsletter what? Database what? I'm trying to concentrate but I simply cannot. I'm straining out of the corner of my eye to see who's walking by my office, seeing me with beautiful Mia, envious and wondering how I got so lucky. And I'm thinking no matter how old you get, some things never change, even when you've become a stupid, useless old thing like me.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:023

All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
The Art of Reading

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Because We're Dying
A dream: We followed a troll horse through the mountains and into the desert. There were animals with dusty flanks and hanging tongues. The sky was big and the land was long. We watched skeletons dance with flies, and then a black jaguar attacked us and we kissed as we died. Not a dream: In the morning we walked by the river. The geese had been there-- I found a feather--but by then their necks would be stretching the sky. We found a dead snake and bent over it, examining the tooth marks, turning it with sticks worn white--a dog, we decided, killing for play. I found a river rock--smooth and red. Maybe a dream: If we hold our heads up, we will see Turkey vultures, if we hold our heads down, we will find mushrooms. I taste blood in my teeth when I watch you sleeping. The sky will be big and the land will be long. Will you hold my skull to your belly? I can feel the bones in your hand.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:023

I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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Of Late
Past lingers on, The perfume stays in bed all day to wake fresh flowers. I am a dew-drop on the autumn Leaf afraid of smiles that wade through a sea of thoughts interrupted by the doorbell. Wait a while, stranger. Let the trees bathe in the blue And that whisper of light stay. I want to sin.

poetryrepairs #197 v14.02:023

Poetry endangers the established order
of the soul - Plato

REPAIR : resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition.
-- Oxford English Dictionary


ANNALYNN HAMMOND : Because We're Dying

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