Breadcrumb #293


Above her the morning grows,
the day to dim dusk, rays sag
to her clear hands, they curve
the light into rivets and spirals,
the curls of her almond hair spray
on her bent back. With neck bowed
so low, eyes coil into an intense prayer:
Poseidon, why did you allow your anger
to thwart Odysseus and his travels?
The winedark sea does not carry fire
but a mute meditation. Breathe deeper
into your salt-burned air.

With knees on granite sand,
silver moon streaks swing into
her body bent and rippled,
her damp lips rise and fall.

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Breadcrumb #291


Trionfo della morte

After a long night, after a discord of self. After silence, and all that is carried inside of it, there is a kingdom in your name. That it does not exist when you arrive but is always there. It is not waiting for you, but it waits. It is not of you; you are of it. It is you. After a bath of ocean locks you in and old kings come to hold you to their chest, this place will be a living thing. It is not made for you, but made by you. It is made up of you. It is the blood of the long way home. It is the peacock & grotto. What wound it wants. What wound it fills. It is the white bird. It is the awayness of long nights, too long, too dead, too held, too sick. It is the hereness of some peace; the proximity to the grotesque, the longitudes of the divine. What silt, what silt. That you have straddled the cusp.

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