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August 7, 2011 | 5:39 pm
Posted by Emily Stern
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there are words for things,
somethings, that in their coarse separation, like water, become a substance separate from the particle of dust that uplifts her or makes waves or storms. O when do we change from one whole matter of fact to a void whose absence is galaxies, A life up here. Laugh like the broken sounds of a shofar. Calling the world, the four corners to come. Bride, each his own echo, a ruffle in a dress that is coming off and being embroidered and the embroidery peels her skin and is only decadence. A decision to love you is made. Turn around and see her face, Yours.
Well, maybe for a moment a moon could write something.
There are words for things.
4.6.12 at 6:03 am | Let Yourself Go Some Passover Notes and. . .
2.27.12 at 2:56 pm | . . .

2.2.12 at 1:13 pm | I peek down the path you came from, and smile at. . .
12.16.11 at 8:25 am | . . .
10.30.11 at 5:48 pm | . . .
10.12.11 at 10:28 am | . . .
12.16.11 at 8:25 am | . . . (18)
4.6.12 at 6:03 am | Let Yourself Go Some Passover Notes and. . . (14)

2.2.12 at 1:13 pm | I peek down the path you came from, and smile at. . . (13)

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