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The Shape
by Dean Pasch

We are erosion, the roundness of soundless
growth. Between our years, shadows navigate
sunlight. What we donít put into words, obeys
the gravity of silence, like stones destined
to disappear. We are skinís efforts to cover
flesh, holding together, stacks of bone and rivers
of red; each cell of blood travels, to or from
the shape we see as love.

 

 

Deanís November 2010 Southern California Poetry Tour Itinerary


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