Oct/Nov 2001 Poetry


by Kristy Bowen

Art by Bob Dornborg



Something has been retaken,
Hatched itself in your blood,
Attached itself, rests deep
In the hollow of your bones.

The morning stretches out in front
Of you like a clean white sheet,
You walk into traffic without looking,
Forget your umbrella, reason,
Misplace loss like an old book.

You're beginning to notice
The bones of your hand,
Vagueness, the rise and
Fall of your breath,
Angels in your veins.

A vacancy filled, an articulation
Of disorder, of omission.

You are beginning to float,
To find your own way in the dark.


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