lending, borrowing

Some things are so delightful they must be shared. Another thing
left here to be found by those who want it

Amy's words [re]arranged by Me

father for the first time said child will resist me
he had in her yard in Indiana, from Mississippi
a poet performing gleefully tonight, they are disguised 
as dirges leaking out over sleep
on the spot for your dream remember
the rhyming with leaves and walking of the 
cold owl thinking his scrambled shriek
swoops to their low, the poem bullet 
has no word inside it, and the leaves of us 
between, of, and, still screaming.

My words [re]moved by Amy:

Losing My Place And Finding It

The only time I dance,
spinning, mind-footing palindromes
by the tail, bewildered
to the brim, brusquely
pouring the not-small
into the loyal, sucking out hunger,
half-struggling for a gang
of willingness & many, many years,
I bless forgotten apples,
play little poems unvoiced.
Lost when it is over,
eternity performed,
overindulgence, but
I have slurped up
communal shoeshine & memory,
with a possible side
of the abyss, a twitch,
souls of the departed falling
from bodies awash with common
wonderful, nerves & fine dust
rising off the sidewalk as dirges
that swoop and rhyme with leaves.
Dear Body: The bullet coming our way
has no word inside it--so dance!