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December 23, 2010


Every morning dawn-light I watch

my thoughts these colored birds fly circling

far above the trees, sharp shapes on blue. Goodbye.

Mid-day down they drift, ripped and torn

like confetti from third-story windows

above a parade route, unable to wing it.


What thoughts? Neither bright nor bold,

nor fitting, not returned nor overturned:

my brain folds up, rusty and bent

like buckled railroad ties that can’t

hold a train.


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