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Vasae Lynn

Hidden Talent

I try to think
of things to think

that escape me
at ordinary times

          to be touched by things,
          carried off,
                             taken:

                                    leaf ballerina
                                        in a whooshing pirouette down
the amberlit corridor of adoration

to fold gracefully,
  to let go
                             as sparrows
                                                hold to             nothing
                                                               when they lift,
  hanging their cupboard wings wide

to greet the hot winds of change,
a sunflower bobbing its face

to forget the meaning of uncomfortable
                                and crumple
                                           like a snoring, silk
                                                                            sloth
to swagger
                              vagabondish,
       outlandishly drunk on hope

to throw things away
like seed.

 

 

Thud

Sometimes we exist
in worlds too small to hold us.


Friendships that cannot change,
because friends cannot accept
that you have changed,
and so they die.


The lengthening list of to-do’s
flows like a river of blood,
taking essence away,
dissipating intention into fog.


Then, there is the book you step into,

your true life, a folded forest

whose pages flutter
when you slow down enough
to breathe into them.


There, small gestures
hold the scope of emotion.
Where a tea kettle can expand
into an articulation of silence,
by setting it on the counter
with a muffled thud.