A Rusty Book

You are a rusty book
and I am
emptying a page of my mind

I’m carving out shapes
of letters
to define who I am
or how I’m called
an anchor to a paper
that I know will lift with the wind
as soon as I raise my hand
while the lines are still drying
swept away
imprinted, a form
that will long lose meaning
just as I will lose my own

A war beats within ribcages
each side needs, each side fights
the opposite
each exhale starving the inhale
lungs caught between
their capacity to fill
or be emptied

Our lungs can stretch
we can dance with our own flexibility
and we can sing inside each moment we prolong
Subtleties give way in our perceptions of time
Our meditations will remind us

I am not one, but two
I am not home–but residing
a temporary traveler

Let me tell you the histories I have seen
hear the stories you will out-do
with a laugh
and I will fall back, a child
Reaching always to your shoulder, pretending
I am only short
I am only young
My heart has not expanded like my lungs
and my lungs are weak
Instead, my heart will grow more of its kind
to compensate
Reconstruct the inner workings of my chest,
build trenches to carry the new blood

I will never mature
only age
There will be dust and weeds
and you will wonder what
became of the garden you meant to tend.Over The Garden Wall; A Study In Roses.  Read more: http://chestofbooks.com/travel/italy/south-tyrol/John-Stoddard-Lectures/South-Tyrol-Part-11.html#.VKajlHtvmkI#ixzz3NfkM0l9V

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