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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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