The Window
by Diane Di Prima
you are my bread
and the hairline noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea
you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands
this kind of bird flies backwards
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks
this is not the time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)
I think
tomorrow
turned you with his toe
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground
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Given the choices I can't decide whether this is good or bad...
Take the Hey Hey, Which Monkee Are You? Quiz
What type of Mary Sue are you?
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