bones born of caliche
bleached by a desert sun
carried in a wind stung sack,
an oracle cast.
wasps have fled
the paper nests of my lungs,
but a quiet rustle remains.
written in the rime,
the crystal breath
of a mothers memory,
missing compass points
lost somewhere in the depths
of bloods history.
it has been so long since I have
seen the ocean.
the wild violence of a new erosion,
a wet kiss to wash the sand
from my eyes,
a new skin to fall below
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