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Tenacity of Lace

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Musings #30



No more will ever come up and through,

like breath from navel to crown.


Surrounding me, the scratch and spill,

ink-staining on the drawn blank.


I am barren, at last croned.  No more pushed

down and out, body splitting like a seed.


Unhurried, Turtle whispers, gestate.

The “oh!” Something is becoming.


Tumbling at the end of an untangled knot,

the poem: an ear waiting in the swell.





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