I am in the fire sometimes.

it is wet in the woods in the mornings, perhaps it is my imagination

that the coolness seems to stay longer in my bones, even after the sun rises 

these papers are on the floor, poems… unfinshed, they make it into my Medicine         somehow

or perhaps the poems came first. I am dumb at the talking-Hopefully my tongue comes back with

the Moon of the Popping Trees.

 

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