Friday, April 17, 2009

not naught nor oft

well the gutted lawn made a lovely host for my family trees silkworm hollows. foreign limbs twenty years dead touching spaced out teeth of a picket fence, frowning along the northern slopes of the dunes that cradle the limp body of my family's first prophet.
so it is said, my life line begins with a dead rabbit, as byzantine or pretentious as that may sound
only, i was birthed from a wood stove to find a room filled with an uncertain heaviness. no blood to define how i came from both land and sea, only the paw prints of my father pressed firm into the palm of my hand. my house of leaves, my hand, my home, swallowed by the sea.



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