Waver

I stretch through
degrees of separation
to touch you
and reach you by proxy.
Make a list
to trace back
each turn or full stop.
I savor the taste of the edge.
And my mother would tell you
I don’t mean trouble,
but am just adventurous.

Still,
you’ve got me
on my knees.
And I can’t tell
if I’m begging for the end,
or pleading for more.
And anyway,
how can you uncast
your sideways spell?

We lay bare and blistered bones
down on the greening field.
Let the sun warm them clean again.
Wind whispers,
tell me what I must do.
We put our faith in outside,
because these dreams
are a fog we can’t think through.

The question hangs here.
Which is better?
To continue to be drawn
outward by a rising spring?
Or to dive deep into
the running water
and watch the world widen
from below?

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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