Sunday, October 30, 2016


Where there's fire, there's smoke, thin
As a skiff of ice, hot
As Yellowstone geysers.

My thoughts are in my chest.
They grip me when I swim.
I count my way to breaths

Sipped from the edge of air
That clings along the waves
And then down again, light

Haloing my shadow,
Heat in my heart, ghost ice
In my swimming, swimming,

Waiting, waiting to gasp
I have been listening,
I have nothing to say.

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