Slow Pulse

I’ve never been outdone, by the whir of fan blades,/because their spokes are rapid/my eyes can’t see them./I stab my finger between them,/ they slow to a halt./Now that Summer returns soon,/what remains of promises?/Those I’ve kept, those I’ve broken./I want to take all my promises back,/I croak as I eat,/a little, then a lot/just enough to satisfy/ as the hills rise before me. In the wide open spaces, /fields of roots and brambles, that lead to caves and caverns./I make up melodies, about what lies in store./Shapes, and postures;/ assumed by your gesture,/big boned in a gown of flowers/aligned before the mirror.

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