Let the dust gather,
and let the pages become wrinkled
and worn.
For blessed is he who
softens the page in his pocket,
who lets the thread of his shirts
become bare.
Blessed is he who feels his brother’s
weight, and says that he’s too weak.
Blessed is he who finds fault
in his own words,
and embraces he who doesn’t.
Blessed is he who hangs
his horseshoe pointing down
and lets the luck run dry.
Blessed is he who arrives late,
yet always acts otherwise.
But above all;
blessed is he who asks about
the gates of heaven,
so that he knows which tools
to be buried with.
-Z.L.C.
Quick On-the-Road One-Handed Note: The Rumpus for My Birthday
-
Learning to write lefty.
And to peck
at the keys like
a poet.
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