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'Neither in environment nor heredity can I find the exact instrument that fashioned me, the anonymous roller that pressed upon my life a certain intricate watermark whose unique design becomes visible when the lamp of art is made to shine through life's foolscap.' -- Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Singing Up the Bones - a poem


Today I found a poem with the same title as the first draft of my manuscript:

Singing Up the Bones

I wander;
searching, lost.

I see the light
flowing from the sand of life.
I reach down and push,
the sand falling

Revealing the bones.
I sing them up and see my soul.
There, glowing within
Suddenly, I am found.
 

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