a relative
more a will
to lose
one’s life
for a simple
each of your actions parse
long branching lines
like sentences
streaming across a razor’s
grammarian edge
each word spliced
obsessively to my life
my heart

on this garden path
I gather
what’s left
like soft flesh
to my hands
my fingertip
the curve
of your breast

I follow what’s left here
like hounds hot on the scent
baying across a marsh
are these trails real
or am I distracted
by my own desires
so many layers to sift through
years of fluid sand
slowly swallowing with each step
all who blindly blundered into our past
he drowns in puddles
of his dreams
within his sarcophagus
this tomb of words
he hid from the love
which would approach him
until he vanished from himself

from “Sonnet,” (a work in progress, line 11, syllables 1-10)

(February 2012)

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