Wading

th

The teacher told me to write

and not stop, it’s known as automatic writing

a way to lose yourself and let go

let loose your ghost to sit down

while you float up, feel the way the air vibrates

with the spin of the earth

or is it the void of

the ocean floor, you fidget with

the thought, the thought of tides rolling

forward, never back, the idea

that the end of this poem

may pool into your toes, beneath a

vortex of dark blue

we wade ankle deep

in fluid words –

they paint the world.

 

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