face we wear
grows old and weathered, torn
open by time,
tinted as dawn
like the late
ashen and crimson.
It will no longer
our deepest scars
from the long
sweet lines left
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
He wants to fill in the pasture’s low spots. I say no, no, no these…
O body, cracked bell that still sings when struck, O leaky cup, O broken stem,…
Oh to find that still surface, the glide of silk and silence, sun lit along…
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