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Ely Jul 2019
You dug a grave for your purpose.
You turned the tune to
a bright coming
while you sat at the front row, but
she watched you in a plummet.

“Mama, please.”
By your lips.
You wanted her to tie
you up so nice.
Your blinding distraction gone in seconds-
she has  gone for hours.

You dug a grave for your purpose.
You’ve been digging a grave with
the parts of your brain that
still work.
Where did your refuge go?
She traded a soul for a rush;
your fix,
now you’re hurt without,
even with.
Ely Jul 2019
I have seen that same movement of air in the modifying
moods of sea
seen from  a crest and immobilized; on clear days and in clouds
paled by wind
on a reproach; and in a woman’s distraction
when she carried herself to awkward seasons
and her room swallowed a strange light; when she is exhausted
not dry, not from burning, but with desire, and things are still moving
but moving less, and she reckoned how many will remain
when she delivered it down to herself through the years,
without a touch, without a thin chord
and her hands have changed it, when until now it is
strangely reserved
like something in perfect stasis, and offhandedly, she says,
“It will rain.”

— The End —