the breathing in of grit
and out of stilted lands
how clutter choked the
flow left chunks that blocked
the rhythms of my soughing
and I panted coughing chip tubes
cat skulls secrets bile
the wastes untreatable all
focus to the root the tide
leaves nothing for the ground
The rhythms of your soughing, though alarming, are beautiful. Bless you, dear Kerri.
ReplyDelete