memory is a ghost knife

the heed here
on a river
is tree sentinels
hooking weaves
between elements
one branch leader
after another
in deep thirst

we find ourselves
part of the greatest river
the twined fall of stars
and the clean part of silt
the bound silk
the mud between your toes
the boughs bending low
the chariots that know to stop
and listen for any song carved
with tongued gravity
to a wordless language
to a time with no clocks
to a place where
there is only bleeding

[ Title and poetry by Edward Rinaldi aka blindedbeatpoet.  I first read and commented on Edward’s poetry on leap day of this year, which I find serendipitous.  A new poet on a day reserved for special things. Since that time, he has become a dear friend and a poet whose work I anticipate. His writing is brash and powerful, sensual and sweet.  He writes like a man possessed and you can see for yourself by visiting him here at the blind lantern. ]

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