Ground in what flows throughCheryl Pallant
Go then, you with I where seeds breaks surface and fertile mounds reveal source. Let the tongue split the one who sewed against. Serpents fire loins without raising the rent. Footnotes may startle. The endnote may not appease. What’s in the margin marginalizes the unerasable smear on whose reputation precedes them and anticipates flings washable with a good shower and later showing a better cheek or both simultaneously, both in the line of fire. Glow then, you with I. If neither of us can say, the silence betrays a more unspeakable harm. East winds, arms tied, untry and misconstruct, raise the dirt and lower the sun. Bring what’s leaving with what remains of the day and char not supplicants to the utterance, the cleared throat, the cough that supposes phlegm meets soft remembrance. Hands anchor the sky in elephantine minutiae. Without the jungle, no rain. Without rain, no remedy for the ailing whose surfaces leak and surrounds a mutinous source. Let the tongue lather wet. Let the mouth open elided. If silence is sought, seek its center, ripe beyond perishable, and ache beyond blossom.
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