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Anchors in Erratic Soil As waxy sunlight creeps through blinds, I toss and turn against the darkness rolling in -- examine scars with fingertips as if I am a cracking vase unsure if it will hold the flower. I wonder if I'm strong enough to walk on rising pressure sores, kiss the pain ahead of me like brushes stroking canvasses I can't undo, I can't erase. You're up and padding past the door. Ears prepared to catch old baseballs hurled from stadiums of grief. Coffee perks and wafts its scent down hallways to my clotted nose. Health this year has been a broken zipper stuck. You are gloves when I am thorns; you are skimming slighted halves of chicken wings in hope of finding answered prayers. Inside worry's interim, your touch a cashmere turtleneck dressing roughness with rare silk. I know it's only borrowed fur -- that death some hour will make it wool. But I will leave a season's street knowing I'm no pauper in the land of love, left hungry in a railway car. As I dwindle, so you lift. As I fall, you climb our cliffs and rising stairs. Thank you for the rails and ropes -- for anchors in erratic soil.
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