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Tenacity of Lace

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Musings #30

THE PROMPT

                          

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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