The grave is deep enough  
Time to stop digging  
Throw yourself in  
And walk away  
betrayed humiliated humility breathe  

I was glad to have died  
One dinner jacket moth eaten  
One pullover a sweater  
Second hand genes  
A jumble sale of selves  
No longer fit  
One gale will steal these blooms
And tears of gratitude  
A smile of comprehension  
There are no dramas  
No guilt or innocence  
In yoga there is only doing  
And when you fall  
You repeat the posture and hold  
A swan span from the lake
A right foot on my thigh  
Feels like your hand touching me  
The whistle in my nose  
Like the wind through the window  
And that throat swallow  
A swan song heralding a cold winter's end
Written by whale
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