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Lana Bella


this land once held you back –

when you were wheat knead into

bread, cauldron held in stock of

flame and winter, goblet of Scotch

lurched down the pelican throat –

now, the sideways rippling fall,

the burning fields and feathering

swaths of hummingbirds that 

sculled the air, are your fingertips

released of dirt over dispersal of

time, without reprieve, ballasts in

a manic and lonely thirst, the kind

with wide open door waiting to be

walked-in and lived through, sparse

as frayed-end threads of a tapestry –

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