In this poem the boy
is just a boy. The hands are just hands. The blood is just blood. Let the body keep its red meditation, the cells sky at the center of the self, pulsing, breathing, wanting. If only it was that easy to write a poem without bleeding into it. Open the unmouth and let the unlungs bear the unbearable. Listen to the heart thumping out the unimaginable question of how to live a life unsolved, dissolved, absolved.
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AuthorNathan Lee's poetry and prose. More of my work can be found on my Instagram. Archives
March 2020
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