2/1/16
Cut, I spill
the spit of voices
I was holding.
When you flung
me, your spade,
skyward. Where no tool
should waver.
When.
The wet of your attention met
fire and shrank back.
You entered,
I spoke in tongues.
Now tongues come
searching for my mouth.
Ojalá. Green shoots that appear
on a strange warm day.
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