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Aug 2020
books written in symbols
were attempts to mimic the language of the heart

somewhere i jotted within an admission of love

i wonder who knew it first
and how profound it could be when it was there the whole time

~

i find myself at Union Station,
where people pass time sitting silently in pews.

closing doors kick a breeze that weaves between the columns
holding up the heavens
the hair on my arm waves like wheat stalks

i’ve got a hunch i could go just about anywhere from here

the halls here just go on and on.
it’s not the whole world, but it’s the only place i want to be.
hi everyone, i haven't posted here in a while, but i thought it would be appropriate since i just released my new poetry chapbook. if you like this poem, you should check out some of my samples on my etsy page!

take care,
jake

https://www.etsy.com/shop/leafandplume
Jake Welsh
Written by
Jake Welsh  Chicago
(Chicago)   
229
 
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