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Sunday, January 24, 2010

The Taste of Metal

Your water-dream paints white-stripes on stones.
Uncertainty growls in the throat 
of a dog asleep on the shore.  
The slick-eels 
with rows of teeth are a memory.  

Sharp arrowheads bite your feet,
and the water turns red. 
You awake to the tin taste of metal
on your tongue. 

You skip stones and cut 
the water’s surface
like it means something, 
like it will bring you back from the edge. 

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