Inventory on an Empty Page, Written in Indigo Ink

We need a sign,
a sage, some semblance
of stage to soliloquy
our last songs.

We need a crowd,
a cloud of witnesses
to call us lost
and find us home.

We need a word to etch,
to stretch us into more;
a less
-on learned, kerned close.

We need a heartbeat,
ready feet stomped
into unfamiliar shoes.

We need a mad
-dash joy to temper
all this violence.

We need a still
small voice to break the sigh



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