Friday, March 16, 2012

An Expressive Struggle

A thousand tiny ants
Marching down my arms.
Ten thousand tiny needles.
Six billion tiny people
Marching down my arms.
My heart boils up through unsteady hands.

I am a twig adrift on a sea
Of other people's passions.
A drop of dew on the tip of
The drooping leaf.
On, or just beyond.
Clinging. Longing.

The last bowling pin wobbles
wobbles. wobbles.


What means this trembling.
These ants.
This heart beat?

A child, faded blue overalls.
An apple tree.
One low-hanging branch.
Fruit, bright red.
Dazzling in the recent rain,
Red against the mud and bark and trampled grass.
His hand, his arm stretches
His body, his toes.
Almost. Maybe.
A touch!


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