my ashes… prelude to isaiah 61:3

my ash-colored sighs tiptoe up
dusty puffs of

desert breath … singed

paper-thin fragments of me swirl

like question

marks… ostriches flap this

way and


way above my

moth-colored pyre of incense…

confusion whispers

“marco” …


quiet answers …no polo…

echoes …no polo

there is no

way for me to

put my

self back

together again…i

am tick with no

tock… i am

mirages of

sun beat exhaustion … i

ripple in pools of

loneliness and


oasises where

i watch


of myself gather

like rain clouds above

my head … but


cannot find rainbow swirls… so

i pray for

angel wings and butterfly nets…

for someone to say

polo… for someone to

catch me

for someone to

bow to


i blow



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