Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Jenny Jo Wennlund

seven year sleep

play my sinew
like a harp
wear my braids
they are suspenders

fortunes promise
children moons
the red flower
turns inside a musicbox

famous lecture
the silence gives
cold anemone
burns the mines

fickle grass
I wish I could touch you
I wish to pour
ink on your cheek

Navajo weaves
on sycamore tree
harpsichord and metal
in the glass of water

I keep in my shoulder
the tiny box of fleas
on a record it is written:

forget the black that is
her eyes
do not look
for him asleep in a picture

the spider mourns
not the sunset
sit still on the sea-
side, she will find you out


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