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Leaving the Mountain

May 13, 2012

(in memoriam: Mamaw,
my mom, and Maurice Sendak)

All that is new, not
of home, or me, calls
me. What is not goat
or sheep, though like both.
Skin brown not from sun
but nature. Mucous
membranes where I have
none. Ruffled symbols
predicting nothing,
communicating no
awe beyond what this
world offers somewhere.

And so, I go, trade
dew for camels, light
and ice for humid
dinosaur woods. Once
there I dream of sour
red berries, silver-
armed sprites, cold whey
in a hammered cup,
and the attention
of old grizzle-mouthed
women wanting more.

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