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Letter to Domenico


Domenico, it's my own fault -

the sky, the rain, my hands

that curl into crochet

hooks. The fall nears and my

eyes are as sharp as needles. The

tree tops, the wind, the muzzles

of dogs - fires are burning and

pines lean this way and that.

Everything disappears into

the earth: lakes, seeds, bone.

Even tattoos lose their power.

If you walk early, take a dog

with you. It is a fearful time.

The time of sticks, sleep, and lanterns.

If you have a good woman hold to her.

If you don't, don't ask me. I'm laying out

a bed of leaves and covering it with wild

grasses, hoping a spark will take hold.

 ©2008 Paul Zemokhol