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Friday, August 27, 2010

Bee Line

Wherever I am

I am what is missing. - Mark Strand

Hovering above

what is missing,

the pollen dusted bee

falls into the honey

of my eyes and everything

is golden. What is

this that was,

this that now I am?

Where are my wings

to climb the sun buttered sky?

What is this emptiness

that fills my lungs

and lifts me

into weightlessness?

The wayward wind,

has the last say.

I move within

a motion not mine.

Flying is falling

when there is nothing

to rise above.

I rise with each breath,

fall into love.


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