the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

A Quarter Back In New New York

He'll take you to Cassadaga
Where the ends begin to fray
From the end of the beginning
To end of every day.
You could be his stitches
And tie your wishes on a string,
He'll wince before your needle
When you feed him what he needs.
Sterile is procedure,
It is not quite how it bleeds,
It's clogging at your leisure
Unless these lesions need to breath.
The pressure was your fingertips,
Spoke nourishment uncurdled.
He milked out every trace
To save his grace with written words.

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