Much like this poem

Much like this poem

 

a child speaks in projective whisper

learned lessons from the clouds—

 

whereas, in high desert, projection laws

do not apply

 

blades of grass imply distinct edges;

to sever an edge is true

when held in memory

 

childhoods rove in waves—broken

toys and plastic chairs surface in the sand;

storybook territories continue to expand

underground

 

unfinished lines hang there, threads

a line of thought paper thin, as a vacant

lot of known flowers in context

of what we don’t know

 

some lines calcify, locked in strata

where we put them and fill in sand

and sleep

 

when they find us

here, they’ll replace themselves

into the hollows left by these bones

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