Literator 5/17
The words are ashen-
burn holes in the paper
a fingering of hollow space
Thinking sent into sky offering
the clouds something to build
storms
Books will unhinge themselves will
come out of shelves tossing
leather at wondering animals
And you are the opening shot
clenching jaws holding
doors open for the flowing page
What purpose this drowning
this wavering hand
What can one see through the holes?
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