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The First Artist

As embers collect
inside a wheel of stones
his head warms like a furnace,
and the mind incubates inside
as it presses feels for an opening.
Shadows flicker and shake
across the fissured cave walls,
and he dips a juniper stick
into wet clay, its end
turning red like a lit candle.
He crawls deeper inside,
beyond the shadows,
the dark, and the cold,
beyond the dampness
of the earth, and the thick
smell of the olden.
He crawls to where
he cannot see himself,
or hear his own breath,
to where he is curled up
in a crevice, his knees
tight against his chest
his hand still clenched around
the juniper branch, and he presses
and scrapes it in a long bow curve
against the wall, as he trembles but continues
the big bowl belly of a bison
and the birth of all that has followed.

1 Aug 07

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the first poett
saaw his dik,
and said "a stik",
and "ha, ha, ha,
ha" waas the
first applause.
 — joey

that was adorable, thanks
 — joshcoops

I have no critique on this.

This is one of your best, that I have read.

 — unknown

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