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Room of DustAcrid, the earth falls upon our hands,it clings to our clothing, it is silk, and when a hand traces something in the depths of the floor, we cannot read it, it is written in the language which the feet of a drunken man scrawls upon the ground as he staggers his way home in the morning. We vanish upon entering this room, the earth inhales us...we enter the nostrils of the rain. We go on anyway, we cannot stop. We know we are walking into a mouth, the mouth of that cave where God sits, a tired vagabond or exhausted tour guide at the entrance, and waits at the threshold to gently push us in. One by one we are devoured by beauty. We cannot stop being born. |
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Issue #11, September, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.