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we had an old mattress.

between air
in exile,
fathom yourself.
we're going to
walk this path,
your brother's last
crest, beneath
consumer products and
beneath acacias,
in the cry
of the river.
you've been dodging the precipices
empty handed, carrying
this mattress
because i didn't.
there, almost.
the river
gasping purple
itself enough to fill
fifteen years of an hour a day
its liquid eye
suspended on a thousand
terrible cries
of a language powerful
in others and in aging.
i swam. now i'm back home.
you said
"how will i know?"
and i said
"well, turn the river
on the sun, the point
from which my life
at night
used to carry water."
it occured to me that
this mattress
would think we were anywhere,
and i was sure
it could even walk.
but maybe eleanor
maybe elly convinced me
that we needed a new mattress.
you woke
with but a few words
about two years
through coffee fields.
lets get a new mattress
as long as
we get rid of this
surface tension;
i don't want to get
a good mattress
back again.

this is a cut-up poem.  i don't think i can make claims to authorship.

18 Feb 06

(define the words in this poem)
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I already commented on this, somewhere else methinks
 — unknown

thanks maria. i'm working on some of the changes you suggested.
maybe we could have a longer conversation about it?
 — midare

Mmm. This poem is love.
 — leah

Can I sit here and like this poem?
 — unknown

dear unknown.
yes you may.
 — midare

midare, this is lovely, I will take the time to comment more
 — unknown