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I am building a little boat for the

blame. I am pushing it into the stream. 

See where it sails. See how I turn

away. How I am not directing it

toward you, toward anyone, even

myself, not anymore. Let the water

have it. Let it drown, or dry up  

against some distant shore.


This motion is nameless, or it has

many names, and I too assume many

shapes and boundaries.


And now I am a door swinging open

for wind. And now I am the wind,



I’m sorry you thought there was love.

There was; it would be simpler to

believe otherwise.


Truth is kaleidoscopic. Lies are

straightforward. You like a good,

logical argument.


Once there was the smell of Texas

sage, a purple smell, pandemonious. I

can’t smell it anymore.