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there was a tree to draw (listening to Rhiannon)

there was a tree to draw and I drew it strangely
there was a sweetness to draw on and I smashed it wrong
there was a wall full of drawers and in every one an old body
there was a zipper to pull and everything went spilling lost

this is the wrong handwriting but it keeps looping
this is the quiet, finally, brushing me with its lashes
this is the fever we dance to with the deep deep beat
these are the eyelids we press with cooling fingers

it doesn’t stop for anything, it keeps me turning
it doesn’t wait for letters from the old back country
it doesn’t run smoothly through the rolling machinery
it doesn’t drink the things I drink, it doesn’t know from ice

how do the hundreds of hours fill with brisk-eyed wanting?
how do the hundreds of pages speak the dusty lines?
how do the hundreds of feet stomp the ageworn wood?
how do the hundreds of aches ever rest? 

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* today's Napowrimo prompt: Listen to a favorite piece of music and write. I turned Rhiannon Giddens' There Is No Other on and off while I wrote. 

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