Thursday, April 28, 2011

Yvette Thomas

I DO NOT WAGER MY LIFE UPON IT


for Abbie

Blindly, in the spring grove, another hand in mine

like my own–



Small, nails.



It's the walking boulevard, flowered trees snow their petals on the stone path

to nowhere, to where the land is bit

at the beginning of water.



Shade or it's night–the thought of rain and that same friend

missing, her shape in heaven, cast.



She says,



Cloud-brand, air-daughter, I would not wager my life upon it



or that sense we trace the sky with, disappear.



MORE WORK BY YVETTE THOMAS

Revolving Door

The Daily Palette

Delirious Hem

Yvette's blog

elimae


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