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Old Mountain

The mountain invites the lightning to pierce its face

and the body was made to be plowed with the tongue.

I can’t help but press my chest

against the green blade of your name

that cuts a path through the day’s walls

to the silence that accompanies blood and blue

and the horizons in the horizon of our newborn breath.






© Robert S. Pesich, all rights reserved. This poem first appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Vol.11 No.1, Spring, 2005

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