Outlasting the Storm

Outlasting the Storm January 15, 2010

The island of self I return to

is washed of all edges, completely

smooth, as if all the loss and struggle

never happened. When a stranger asks

how I came to be here, I have no way

to light the stories of being saved from

myself into a fire that can warm us. No

way to paint the joy of being here across

the sky. I only know that no island is

separate below. Only an island in what

it shows the world. So lay with me in

the sand we’ve given up, that we might

drink what spills from the moon.

"Monet was nearsighted and painted what he saw."

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