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Left Hand Path

every new confession leads me deeper into an old hallway

what is it, do children run this place, laughing through the

paintings, skipping stone acrost the face, reflection from

the puddles perspective, explodes in vicious, dripping, play

gripping the mask death wears with both hands moving

past the scene, revolution in the numberless descending

steep, to the garden again, i swear it was the step, one above

one below, the bell is ringing, turtle-dove, that ancient book

the spine, the crook, the knock, the noose, the nudge, a table

spared, moved and used to find, back in place as the old story

goes, that secret catch, the book opens, and further into space

illustration of the garden painting, form and flowers without

a vase, one must visit the stream to fill the urn and from the urn

the stream itself and she takes her seat right next to me, forever

it seems, is, a recognizable signature, 1000 cursive i's beat.

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