Roof top

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It’s always a battle 
against gravity. 
things not put away
a middle toe found  
between the pruning sheers and the center of the earth.

When someone falls, 
faints, 
has a heart attack, 
is punched out in the ring, 
their heart is broken… 

first thing
get them up. 
if they can only stand 

gravity can be fooled, 
misled 
not notice the break in resistance 
a prone body flaunts 

It knows

We know it knows
we need to forget 
if you can only stand

how close to gravity’s clutches we are
how precarious the balance 
stars can’t escape
we can be forgiven
we are only made of stars 

Story of the nomad

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He came to town infrequently but his visits were well remembered. He traveled light, with just the one small leather bag. Inside were his instruments, it was these that they remembered. After an elaborate set up he would create  a small image of astounding beauty. This he would trade for a meal and a bed for the night, then be on his way in the morning.

He would return a few seasons or years later. His small images, notes from a different time, on the walls and in frames in the taverns and pubs.

Grand remembrances would follow, free drinks and back slaps. 

Really, you must tell us of your exotic adventures.

Then a story of two.

Near the end of the night he would produce a new image for them from the delicate instruments before retiring to the room his wandering had led him to that night.

It was uncommon at the time to sign in when staying at a hotel. After he had not reappeared for a few seasons or years, no one knew his name.