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a pome called sustenance


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the actual world is not an imaginary friend.
the moon in the sky is farther out than we can conceive
but we can imagine what we imagine
without end.

we can walk to the foamy line where the surf
runs up the sand and see the curve of our
mother's side - the old wine-dark sea.

and then after swimming in
rosario strait - the taste of salt on her skin -
her salt-dried hair: these mysterious traces.
i could show you a photo of the day.

still we have a heavy heart - our errors and
arrogance that cost lives - this empire of
small shovels and pails.

wind through leaves or my grandmother's
bones - the ache is real. who doesn't
dread the piercing wound - gutshot and
too strong to be found?

hunter says you walk following blood.
says eat when you can. with teeth and talons
on painted barn doors writes, free them.

­ Monte Merrick


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