The
ragged edge of loneliness, broken
By
strangers’ gossip of sex and God.
Fertilized
by dust spores of desire,
Womb’s
fruit waxes tender, smooth
In the
fullness of the day’s empty hours.
Sing in
me, O muse,
The sound
of an earthworm’s progress
The
sight of a mosquito’s eye jelly
The
taste of an oncoming storm
The
touch of a mysterious stranger.
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