the_warmth_between_the_hurt raze i am a lank larch, slight enough to be bent by the briefest breeze but_still standing when the wind has done its worst and dared me to die in its unrelenting arms. my soft spine will forever fold in the face of fear, rheumy with rain and unspent words. flimsy as this hope may be, i remain married to the magic of movement and all it makes possible. our collective chronicle cranes its neck away from the solipsistic, toward some strange plateau where the poetry of loss and lived experience intersect. this is the book of now, and we are the ink that gives its pages purpose. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (built using the words offered by ovenbird today on make_me_a_poem) 260111 what's it to you? who go blather from