my writing journal
baking in the sun
where I left it
leather more than warm
like a post-race horse
without the sweat
that pours off me
from the distraction
of a needy chore
collecting cutting
fallen palm leaves
after a turbulent night
I sigh at the
scrapes on my arms
the lack of marks
on the pages
the ink-blood
now poised in my hand
waiting
to be spilled
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