Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 Poetry |

Deposit

Sometimes water falls and leaves itself like blood in the basin, staining. That is when I remember, go out of the silence I've created, as a mouth unfolds to open when mimicked by the hand. A name is another imitation, tumbling across centuries, a bud detached from stem. The past returns beheaded— Gone, gone, my blooming.

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Sometimes water falls and leaves itself like blood in the basin, staining. That is when I remember, go out of the silence I've created, as a mouth unfolds to open […]

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