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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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