you find that by releasing
your feather tipped fists
you can form a bowl
to receive the blood and water
as if your sheltered consciousness
is
dripping
from
the
wrists
of the writhing Pacific
as the swirling air confesses
to a lone woman licking her lips
tasting salt and rust
assurance and myth
knotting braids to tether
her lungs to the function of breathing
she's seeking a hollow harness
to loop around the deep scar
of a long lasting resistance
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