Friday, May 6, 2011


Each of us seeks truth
In her own way
Upon the mat, the piste
The page
Chasing metaphoric ice
Dumped down the neck
—rude awakenings are preferable
to sleep—
Losing balance
Stretching for the touch
Groping for the perfect metered word
Stumbling on
Pellucid acts
Slicing through the ambient confusion

Sometimes caught in
Unbraced for the damage
Truth, unbound, inflicts

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