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May 2014
I live
to create
each letter
         turning phrase and
         thought-out straightaway

You read
every syllable
letters strung
like a popcorn necklace
fingerpainted fragment sentences
authoritatively artistic and
defended in brazen resolve

my keeper of the slight,
the nuanced, softly sung,
down-quilted gerunds:
holding, brushing, sweeping
tasting, loving

There is no sound in space.
No quiet nothings whispered.
The sunlight on my face
now scorching, cracking, blistered,

comes quickly
when the cook's not around;
so when the words stop
if need be,
feast on me.
Riq Schwartz
Written by
Riq Schwartz
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