the rise

6 Oct

a slow nostril inhale mellows my compass seizure.
i’m the wind, worm, and seagull.
i’m the branch jetting from a ledge.
i’m a lottery ticket let loose.
i open my eyes into the anonymous bakery
and one dark russian loaf sits like a small town football.
there’s thunderstorms in people’s conversations and
conga symphonies coming from the pot and pan kitchen.

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