poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Thursday, September 20, 2007


I can still smell the hiker-sleep, earthy and wet on hot
summer nights, on the old cloth couch
in the room with the walls were painted with trees
and music. I started out on the wings
of the large unshaven one, he blinks around
like a butterfly that could kill you, he tells me
the size of this country and the size of my foot are the same
he tells me sometimes it takes the Trail to change where you are going,
Only to find everyone is just passing through
and freedom is the music you make alone.

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