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A flash of movement just inches from blindness
sudden shadow streaks like a shot arrow
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(Warning: sparse profanity used for humourous purposes.)
He says: "Let's spice up the relationship.
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clearly Descartes thought
that the very act proved it.
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Women hold hands in the dark; identical Penelopes
Count the years of their marriages.
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Poetry sleeps. It slips
from existence to memory, whirling
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late in the dreamsong of the night
when the fireflies rest wrapped, snoozily
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smooth and silken, like fine-spun thread
fresh from the cocoon
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Silhouetted upon the white sandy shores, an oil-paint
splashed vivid of the visions behind triumph.
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feather fly over the land
what do you see in the hand of man?
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There stand angels
on the edge of
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it’s another sunday
and shadows mark the windowsills
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every year they get up earlier
than usual, and begin their separate jobs.
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it’s the late afternoon again
and the tides come in
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a faerie, we would say
magical, powerful, enchanting, mystic-
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we look over a jagged edge
the broken pieces of a fragile, glassine planet.
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snow falls outside a window
white rain, kissing lightly against a poet’s eyes.
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one last chocolate in the box
only one, silver-wrapped tiny piece
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I spent today, morning breeze...
becasue a child kissed me.
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like hanging dew drops, held piano notes
a delicate portrait of what had been
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follow a road
winds long and serpentine, narrow
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sand and seed, desert children, sing
gliding; dipping, rising, twirling
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embodied in a feather symbol of a soul
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Silver, cheerless, the
tips of
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red rust on a dying leaf
its last hours entwined in gold
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You’re walking down the road
and you’re not there for any reason;
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I’m walking alone today in this blind road, leading
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last fibres crumbling away
fear of forgetting you
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sometimes you see a boy in his chair, positioned
so close to the corner, you barely realize he’s there
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Watching you from afar gives me shivers down my back
always the same, time impenetrable
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still watching you out of the corners of dulled eyes as grey as yours, as tired and bleak as stone
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whispery forest of milk
and clouds a voice rings clear
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hummingbirds on inadequate blooms.
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