Wednesday Night Musings

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So much depends
on a raindrop descending
like death
from a place
without memory.

Long nights of voices
leaving me.
I can not pick mine out
from the echoes.

Do not let my name
fall from your lips.
(I do not know where
to leave my hands
where they can catch it).

Touch me –
there is nothing to dig for here
except what has been left
in the lukewarm soil
of my flesh.

Whatever happens
like stones falling from rooftops-
stones falling
through our palms
like ghosts.


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