Friday, July 23, 2010



We are made
to drag
the weight of ornaments
on our skin.

We burn
for the game.
The strength of our
amulet is in the
blood needed
to protect our village,
a wasteland of promised
Faces slump over
to quench their thirst.
We sleep in near comfort

tightening our belts
with our left hand
because we have forgotten

that Billy clubs and thorns are as painful
as the sting of a scorpion.

Migrant workers
caught in traffic
something about
a spiraling leaf storm
our dreams broke.

We found love
on an African plateau in Flagstaff Arizona
like fishes out of water.

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