Saturday, January 8, 2011



i have a way of
meddling, figuring,
picking up red leaves
and trying to return them
to the trees.

take the stories of birth
and death, how they’re
blown out by a language
so fixed and nostalgic
it barely touches the ground.

with every breath, another
string of busy body consonants
annexing the space
between my ears.

with every hurried step,
another string of boorish vowels
slopping up the land
i claim to love.

is it any wonder why
you feel so all alone?
looking as you do
with those timid, brown eyes,
at every passing

bare branch, believing
this one could be it,
the one, trying
on your tippy toes
to touch the bark, confirm
what never needed to be.

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Creative Writing the Dharma by nathan thompson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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