Image for post
Image for post
Typed poetry — photo, my own

Digging our way to inside out
of a topsy-turvy world
where fumes cease
and what we’re left with
is the gift of ourselves.

When the lights go out
to whom do you pray?
When the machines stop
do you remember
how to draw breath?

Caterpillars inch.
Suddenly, sprouts appear
and it’s the first time
you’ve ever used
that word correctly.

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