Sunday, December 16, 2007
EMPTY PALM
Toss your arms toward winter, when summer
is the barren ground. Your loved ones become icons; senseless saints and vibrant clowns.
The hand that reaches is the hand that creates, is the one that refuses, turning all beauty to waste.
My prayer is the slim leaf that falls openwhen no one else is around.
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CALL ME ISHMAEL You know why? Because I said so. If I live long enough to make it to an airport without losing any oxygen, if I use my mo...