I came too close to something
I could not fully grasp
With singed wings I toppled
From skies that looked full of promise
I must have missed the point when blue turned black
Now my scorched heart reminds me every day
That it is presumptuous to kiss the sun
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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