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Bundles of Words

Some choose words for back covers

reflecting others’ reflections

my cover is bare

on the front, my lonely name

inside, my bleeding vein


When I read you

I want to be alone

a piece of your soul cupped in my hands

sipping, sipping

as I part your curtain

see you sitting there, deliberating,

choosing words that speak, arching

as bridges spanning continents


A man writes

and having written goes on his way,

leaves his bundle of words

wrapped in a cloth bag

on the growing heap

for dogs and archaeologists to sniff

and pick through

taste, authenticate


My dried blood, mixed with yours

in some anonymous museum of bones

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© Johnmichael Simon



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