Friday, April 30, 2010

Prose Valentine

I blow my nose

on a patch of grass

and wipe it on my sleeve

I am only nine years old

if you don’t count

the other sixty

see how insidious

prose is within the

thinnest words already

a self coagulates

the blood builds

an organ for the narrative

to swim through

and you my love stare off

never more beautiful than

at the moment of surrender.

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