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Pulse

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The red line runs
in torrents to Glenmont--
Which must be a place from your memories--
As we trace our roots through blood.
The tang of humid air in your nostrils is the best kind of elemental,
And it feels something like sweetness,
The first sip of tea through a straw.

I stepped carefully out of your way,
I would hate to impede the pulse of your motion.

Glenmont must taste better when the cup has emptied.

It is a way of flavoring dreams:
A spice to the bitter of past.



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Boosflash said...
Oct. 26, 2011 at 8:46 am:
I love it. You kilt the first stanza captain. Do your dance.
 
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