She moves me,
a grandmother who never
stopped writing in the dirt.
A woman there to the ones
who come.
And I do these things for her,
to her because
I never sat my
dusty hands over hers.
I imagine her lifeline as a transportation.
I sink rocks into a movement.
That's her - stones
sunk to the bottom of an
aging rush.
Where death is like another
decade
to be insecure and haughty over.
may 8, 08
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