set fields to the that fire

2013-03-10 | 5:19 p.m.

This brass key cannot escape
The fine tooth comb of familiarity.
It won't open but one door
And I won't go back there.
I ran as fast as I could with eyes closed,
Letting that caterwaul rise
From bowls to boughs.
Not one voice has settled the wake
That rocks me out to sea,
Like a naked babe
Set free.

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