sluice

when i ask to be taken you give me back to myself. what is this light, this river? i ask you to be the current running through me. instead, you open the sluice-gates and let go and the river washes both of us away.

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every time i fall

every time i fall a small glass heart, the oakland hills, a candle burning in bright day. music i can lean on. women’s voices, arms that catch me every time i fall. i am falling the way sunlight enters a room through a warm closed window and unfurls along the floor. i fall and surface…

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