Air Blows Through It
Nothing is real that wasn’t before
like a horsehead in a drum of fire
smoke floats on bone and fat
a hundred steps above the grotto
a hundred chances to get higher
I walk to the edges to be thrilled
it wants me killed a hundred times
I see a piece of honey glass
I take it and dive into the green
those old white walls so shining
below love clear deep water
love says splash doesn’t matter.
© 2012 Rob Schackne
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