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I can not find the letter mother left me four days
before her death. I read it once and then placed

it in a cardboard box like you might a dull
knife or a ******* tin. The letter is

a part me, like Van Gogh’s severed
ear was to him. I want the letter

like love or sight; the way bone
                               needs marrow.
Of all the places
she sought to hide
She only found one
safe place inside
in dancing images
where the poetry
resides.
Golden prairie fields
caressed by August breezes
softly call your name.

*July,  2010
Eating breakfast this morning,
cereal in hand, ready to pour,
I was amazed by what I saw:
a blue sky in my cereal bowl.

Put the cereal down, the sky seemed to say.
So I did.
I sat completely still and watched.
I reflected.
The sky, cupped by curved sides
of white porcelain, was very blue
and flat—a lake of blue milk.

All morning, my heart sounded
like a coin dropped into a well.
And me, waiting. Waiting
for the clink to tell me
my time had come.

Eventually, I picked up the spoon and ate.
This is what infinity tastes like.
some believe in the deity
others in the sanctity of self
I think poetry is a religion
a soul unto itself
not a god
but close
and I seek her his its
calming words
wisdom
to get on my knees
and worship
every night
alone
here
in my sanctuary
like any
true believer
I tried drawing god
realistically
it wasn't very believable  
perhaps a better hand
could've done a better job.
Do you remember
The fairy tales we spun
On those blazing summer noons
When the road tar was melting
And we bunked classes
To be under the forest flame
Shadowed from the world outside
When we thought time would be immortal
As you wiped the sweats from my forehead
And with every thread of yarn
I would grip you harder
In an effort to prevent gravity
From letting those moments fall
Into the abyss of memories.

Do your eyes still see the Prince
That never took you away
When you tell your grandkids
The fairy tales?
March 31, 2016
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