Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Exodus 17: In Writing

Nothing has a weight
a grey slate
Nothing had a taste
of chalky waste
of cracked-tongue thirst
coating the collapsed hollow
of my mouth

Are you here, within
or nothingness?
Does something survive
this parched expanse
of lost sands
limp arms
wailing want?

Finger the crevice
press against
the solid barrier
blocking you
in the sinking weight
am I here?

With your arms
lift mine, 
bear me through these tides
a memory
a song
a figure on a mountain astride

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