Sunday, November 18, 2012


I fear for myself, for the warmth in my face,
I am one that blushes at some things
and would rather.


Choose this small hollow with cold and reliable
rocks for company, safe
in the confines of a narrow purity,
cleared from the twine of complexity.

But lonely. So cold and so stonelike my brain
shuttles and grunts like stiff iron, fearing its own firmness,
washing out the cracks where things might grow.
More afraid
that color washes out with each rinsing.


Dyeing is repeatable.

Quote: Kiran Desai, "The Inheritance of Loss"

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