Wednesday, March 17, 2010

St. Patrick (patron of Ireland, Nigeria, Montserrat, New York, Boston, engineers, paralegals, invoked against snakes)

this land never had any

slithering things to wind

between outstretched limbs.

you lead me to the edge

of the ocean and ask me to stand still.

I thought you were my gold river,

my ticket to the sun.

I want to jump towards the blue,

lose myself where the only thing

to lose is air. I have such windy dreams.

in a life that is thick with thistles,

I have learned to tread lightly.

mornings lean out over the railing,

balance on the edge.

I wait for you to start a fire.

I’ll even take away the matches.

let’s just go home.

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