In the Waiting Room
Time has borrowed me
spilled me,
and healed me;
No muddy voices
reach me
unembedded in its river.
If I survive,
I survive,
close to,
and unraveled by
its popular chords, mute to memory.
And I wonder--
how alone
how must i bleed
how must I face disorder
of blue breath rising
from this stone of grief?
*
Once, while perched on a little ledge,
the lonesome noise of faith
came calling my name.
and I recognized it in
its cloak of silence--
I recognized the stillness
immersed in me, with
my body's boundaries
the lines played and
wondered at, and also
the silk beginning
of a tremor?
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