If I could I would gather all the words from the wild, pick them like berries and press them into these pages to bleed them, beautiful, into my notebook I would chase syllable streams that refresh dry banks and stop. at the quarry where I will cut confused hands on stone, going through the ruins of my dreams and I will bottle my cries to pour over the altar of my art If I could I would answer the laughter in the wind, unravel the rhetoric of the rain, and walking dirt and gravel transcribe the vernacular of city streets I would record every note of joy from children and undo the silence of grandmothers, ask them about dogged hope I would keep on west of my despair, right through the dying sun and spell the sunrise as he lights…
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