ALL RESPONSES |
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Congratulations on your 50th and on the success you've made of Northography!
For other Northographers, take a look in the News section and note that this week's prompt has been commandeered: This week, in honor of Britt's 50th, please post about Britt, Northography and Milestone Birthdays.
Make him want to come back home!!!
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The waves wash over tiny footprints.
Evidence that is left –traces of the love lost
between us. Only for a moment,
you shine like a diamond on
my naked ring finger- you bleed
like the coral reefs- a red dye,
that spreads so far beyond us,
drips life into the fabric of another world.
Piles of driftwood accumulate,
show our inconsistencies are as solid
as the ground we walk.
Our pupils follow the light
as the shore pushes a painter’s horizon
towards the close of day.
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There were many that came and passed through the hall
not seeing the words chiseled into the wall.
I stood there and felt as if nailed to the ground,
or as if a child I had lost had been found.
A kindred soul had once rested here
and bared lonely soul, hoping many would hear.
I vowed then, some day I would fashion a frame
to echo those words, though unknown be the name.
My long gone friend, come stroll with me
along the windswept shore of the sea.
We will listen to music played by the breeze
and spend the time with timeless ease.
For no one else the world holds as fond
as the poet, the artist, the vagabond. |
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She wonders if the backdoor is locked
or if tonight he’s left it open, just the screen
so the sound of crickets can fill the house, so
morning arrives cool and clean.
She wonders if he’d notice, if she slipped in too,
if he’d smell the coffee and peonies,
the scent of rainwater she carries in her hair.
How many steps would it take until he fell
in love
with morning?
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Greater sense of kindness to
others
who need my help
artistically
or
anything else I can
offer
that was given to me in those examples
Physics professor
50 when he taught me
Faith and reason
not mutually exclusive
Sax Player
50 when he taught me
improvisational artistry
brief,
lengthy--
just had to have a purpose beyond self-gratification
Dad just smiled at mom on his 50th
that said it all
Now I have 5 years
Hope
I
can live up
to those examples
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I see in this june morning light
that everything I own needs a new coat of paint.
Not that I mind worn. Not that I mind wear--
the kind living hard leaves soft in my hands.
Love a rock, water’s rubbed smooth. Love a tree,
gray and drifting. Love the way time whittles
away the frivolous, leaves only the bones
of desire, the shape life takes given time.
In this morning’s quiet, I wonder if birds
ever tire of singing, if leaves ever tire of wind
or it rain feels like I do, and just wants you
baby, to follow me down.
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(An outright, though somewhat modified, steal from sunday school days)
Many happy returns
on the day of your birth.
Many seasons of joy be given.
And may the dear muses
who love you on earth
protect you and keep you for leaven. |
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When the fuel in the mews ignites
a zag of winded flame gives no ease
this work of rep and vex
this boned goliath of a fireball
screams from its very ova
and devours jutes, quartz and tinners
in its perilous path to more meaty
structures of city gigs
when the dauber hovers aloft
in extinguishing hope
the fire yips fay and li
a skyward lei
as the sun fades to a button
and clouds to mere acne
an orange mica of light
a surreal sis of despair
until the thin drool of rain
foretells the storm which enters
like a god with fearsome pomp
and pours its triumph -- ha!
Note: This poem was composed using an
entire list of words from a game of
Scrabulous.)
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When his name is called,
he rises, destined
to make the same mistakes
over and over again,
let his eyes be entrapped
by a path of shimmering dust
Such it is being fifty
Like light, like motion
his poems begin
in weightlessness
his voice emerges
from the charcoal
and what he cannot
hold in his hands
he holds with words
No echoes here,
these bound words
able to release
what he’s said
when or where |
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Individually wrapped slices of American Pasteurized Process Cheese Food.
Within each wrapper, the alternate reality that could be.
Unwrap the first one, arrive on the beach at sunrise after driving 22 hours from Minnesota, rip off your clothes, baptize yourself in salt water.
A string quartet plays Beethoven's Quartet in F minor op. 95 as the tide rolls in.
They are slowly submerged, but the cellist has gills.
You fall on your knees and scoop up handfuls of Chinese characters, Tang poems washed down rivers.
You realize -- This is a journey, not a place.
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She sees them in the sun,
a yellow umbrella blossoms
over two heads.
A child runs,
with seashells in his hand.
This is summer;
they are love.
They move along a shore
rubbed by water’s touch.
Fifty years is the sand
packed firm beneath their feet.
Their laughter is freedom,
her tears are hope,
the sea is God
crashing in and pulling out
over and over again.
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No more to walk the fen of youth,
the brain makes slow descent,
but muses delight best with midden
of a well-lived life, ever urging
to the page pure language bidden.
Still there’s much that begs worship
within this revolutionary world--
how full a heart can be
observing just the scuttle of leaves--
proof that dead, too, can fly.
How long a heart can be sated
while gazing into blustery fire.
At fifty, the heart understands the whole,
even when the mind does not--
how time’s blaze transforms
wood into cinders
darkly beautiful.
Memories may atrophy
and what remains
vary with remembrance,
but no one has to tell a wise heart,
how, despite the mountains,
love nestles in valleys.
Time can be
crucible,
promise,
agony or
tender ardor,
so stay keen, my friend,
still the course,
and gift us further poetry.
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People in the village
call them something
other than clouds:
mirrors, shells, sky
hair in white flame
and you know the way
my voice sounds
when it’s cried all day
like it could comb stones
or create stones or carry
stones to the edge.
Imagine then, me driving
the village streets,
circling several times,
tree after tree
under endless offerings
of full leaves.
This is the way i feel
sometimes when you
no longer want kisses
under the street lamps
or the borrowed moon.
Please don’t ask why
everything that follows you
makes me your mirror,
your shell, your sky
hair in white flame.
If you do i will tell you
that the village maples
linger in mid-breeze
and everyone seems
to be sleeping or away. |
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I don’t know how to wear my own shadow
down until it is so faint
one might mistake it for a cloud’s
drifting swiftly across the concrete and green velvet
of the lawn. Mine is lazy, knows little of hurry,
less of anger. Some men don’t know
their own strengths but I don’t know my own
weaknesses until they fall from my hands and shatter
become slivers and shards to slip under skin.
I wonder if anyone else can see
on the curve of the earth
the worn path rain takes and on my body
your fingerprints, like dot to dots
connect each moment of sorrow with leftover sunlight
to my skin.
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| The professor lifted a case of rum from the trunk of the small, German car, squeezed like a bookmark into the customers-only parking lot. He carried it on the narrow sidewalk, past old St. Paul architecture, down the stone stairwell to his basement apartment. Inside, the potted palm, the sand and the Tiki bar were all ready. He was wearing his favorite Hawaiian shirt. It would be a perfect night for the two of them. Across the street, Ginger, looking elegant in her new sunglasses, waited for the pedestrian traffic lights to change. She looked at her watch. It was almost time, and she hoped again that Mary Ann would not show up unexpectedly. |
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The mercy of beauty is that age is inconsequential.
The wrinkles on my mother’s face tell a story,
map the world she has known for 59 years.
The crease down the cheek is a river she once floated on,
25 and beaming, body supple and mind thirsty.
The wrinkle at the mouth is a valley; which held
smiles and frowns. The forehead’s pleat is a fault line
imploded by worry and loss; not knowing at 4 AM if one of us
is still coming home.
My mother always gave us the benefit of the doubt,
her soul danced on the wires above a frayed but sturdy life.
The grace in aging is that beauty is inconsequential;
true charm is the story of life.
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A haze unclothes the islands
the morning after a long rain
and the pier has a flayed, scrubbed look
that freshens as the sun fixes
each shadow in place
.
After rain the world, still
Days of silted chocolate brown surf
then a silver tide.
A change in weather we say, unsettles us
who live inside its mazes,
unable to follow a straight path
or to forecast tomorrow or next week.
Small rock pools
become oily pink in the light
like the necks of pigeons.
Windows in the sides of cobbles open
to warm winds from the desert.
After rain, the world still speaks
Air scents to newness now, calm
coming down, we have gotten
once again to the other side of turbulence,
to wholeness as the wind moves
from past to future
A line of pelican sentries forms
along the riverbank, silent watchers
in the jubilant rush of freshwater meeting salt.
Pier. Poppies. Palm trees. God.
Only now, only for a moment
After rain, the world still speaks in tongues.
The emerald hummingbird
Wings a blurr,
Shakes a needle thin branch and sings
A melody I can’t hear
It goes so fast and straight into the sun.
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After their story, how do they dream - our prince,
our princess, as they wade out into sleep?
He has brought her through the dark forest
to the safety of the castle and now
they share a bed of contentment. But
there’s that wind on the casements
half-calling, and the spit of the guttering candle
that summons elsewhere...
Perhaps in her fantasy
she’s a married doctor in suburban Cleveland
with two kids. Perhaps he
is a taxi driver, prowling the New York streets. |
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triggered by Jennifer's poem, written collaboratively by Alex and me
looking at the sun
is dangerous
but we can make it
interesting
turn it into a yellow
umbrella
blown inside out
by the tides
then we will know
it is truly
summer
don’t ever doubt
that seashells fall
in love
they are rubbed out or smooth
rubbed clean and together
we sleep
dreaming of a godless hope
one without a predictable ending |
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When you finally get
To the end of the world
You will find that the
Only signposts remaining
Are twisted
Savage reminders
Of lives once lived
Comprised
Of dead that have
Drifted ashore
After riding vast currents
With like minded corpses
Until piled and windswept
And forgotten they sit
Faces frozen in screams
That once lit, flicker
And blink and come alive,
Daring the silent hills
To say something
And say something they
Do, and if you dare
Listen to the conversation
That echoes in those hills,
You may be saved. |
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she made up a picture
of her mother,
as soon as the tide
ran over her age-lined soles,
with the far-off scent of heather--
with tremors--
full blown gales
if it had been anyone else:
here they held hands,
and stared
out with the same eyes
that they had when they were born--
and figures
were never final
as their parting steps,
blown away from the shore |
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Half a century!
Think this: I’m only halfway there.
There are many more stretches of sand
waiting warm for your toes and the cool
wash of the incoming tides.
There is driftwood to explore
for new moss, for microscopic
things moving quick beneath it.
There are trees, thick as a horse’s haunches,
pushing up through sidewalks, reminding
that the living overrules the man-made.
There are road trips ahead with a four-footed
front-seat driver, whose wagging tail
keeps you smiling along the highway.
And there are poems left to write, just
hovering above your pen, words swarming
around your head, impatient to be caught.
There is love. There is love. There is
love to be given and had, to stretch
you farther and fresher and new.
And there is you, an only half-finished
tapestry, whorls of ochres, of ruby reds,
royal blues alive and swirling in
motion, in motion, in motion.
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Things work themselves up on a beach.
Not like a field’s unearthing. Beach things
wash in; for a few hours sets of footprints
surround them. Tides take care of tracks.
Such a drudge an ocean can be. So
secretive. Heavings things up, never
telling where they hailed from, their importance
before they assumed their shipwreck form.
Waves hum, tides roar. You have to
walk a mile to get away from them and their
ceaseless wind. But you know all this;
you’re kind to listen. Such an ocean I am.
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Shine little glow worm
off on the horizon
do you know what time it is?
Time for you to go to sleep. |
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(I hope no one minds, but I edited my above poem so much, I just had to repost the new one below. As always, I welcome any comments and critique. Who knows? I may just trash it again and start over.)
Still there’s much to worship
in this revolutionary world--
how full a heart can be
observing just the scuttle of leaves--
proof that dead, too, can fly.
A mind can be sated
while gazing into blustery fire,
time’s glow transforming
wood into cinders
brindled and grayly beautiful.
At fifty, the heart
understands the whole,
even when the mind does not.
Memories may atrophy,
what remains varying
with remembrance,
but no one has to tell a wise heart,
how, despite the mountains,
love nestles in valleys.
Time can be
crucible,
promise,
agony or
tender ardor.
No doubt there will be falls
when wood snaps brittle
and wind scampers leavings
over low hills to the basin
onto soil wretched with dry grief,
but there, too,
will come wildfires
and blessed water
for cooling burns.
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The water talks, slow
voiced and early summer
many words seep through
her salt-cracked lips
it’s cold and her mouth moves
over sand: such thin verbage
fills the spaces between swell
and ache in a lonely minute
In places, she is a dry silhouette
and a kink in her back bends her
sweat pools at her fingertips
as she writes her name in the air
ever, she gives herself in pieces:
blood, bone and eye |
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Our love: a thousand miles in either direction-
if I could write the music
that flourishes between us, our lyrics
would crash like the waves.
Its rhythm would pulsate like the current
that bounces our hearts; tiny orange buoys
on the eve of a thunderstorm.
Granules of sand are swept into an infinite ebb
that pushes coquinas towards their death
and their birth. Our love:
a thousand miles in either direction-
if I could write a song for you I would.
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I inherit the dead.
My body’s no longer a small basket
woven from sweet grass and sea weed
then left on the rocks to be found.
I’m a large basket now
where those who came before me
dropped the maps they carried.
I inherit the dead.
My body follows but never catches up.
My neck hurts with my mother’s pain.
My eyes hold my father’s confusion,
close with his stubborn silence.
My hunger, Mary, my grandmother knew.
Once there were islands where pelicans dove,
the moss - hatted stone on the beach now covered.
Oh tide god, great sand scraper, mountain wearer
I am hollowed from cavernous weathering
undercut like those rocks named skull.
Do my maps from the dead lead to you?
I am a basket made of sweet grass, sea weed,
hungry, a basket swollen with voices,
a skein of words unraveling, words of the dead
like ashes I throw out across the sea
where islands sprout alluvial folds,
curtains, sweet grass green after rain.
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All things are one.
Doves coo in oak.
Crickets send insect messages.
Bamboo spreads fingers.
Magnolia blossoms begin to open.
Palmettos shudder.
Lime tree smiles at basil.
Air conditioner hums.
Fans turn overhead.
A car passes, occasionally.
Ivy climbs fence.
Ocean wraps her breeze around me.
Beneath them all, zero. |
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In response to this photo
This is the phone call I promised
This is the phone call I never made
It goes like this, are you there?
It rang so many times! oh really?
It was like seven on my end.
Its good to hear your voice too.
Maybe you were in the other room
When I called.
You have to give me your address
So I can send you something.
No, I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.
Yes, even to me, but I want to be ready
In the event that I do find something
To send you. Like a letter. A
Good old fashioned letter.
And
We can act like I am in Europe,
On the continent as they say,
And I can describe the beautiful
Painting I saw at the Louvre
Whose sky was brushed to
The exact color of thin undereye skin
And the clouds had all been swept to
The foreground and turned into fine particles
Of fine white sand that were then dimpled
By many fine white feet, and some gentle
Soul residing just out of frame spun
A rope of dry brown grasses
And climbed up all the way up
To that blazing egg yolk of a sun
Poached high in the arched back of sky
And drew a needle slowly across and
Down, down, until it bled nearly to our toes.
Can we do that? I should just call. |
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Moss hangs over your tombstone;
little green fingers that hold
up the memories we made.
Holes, from needles or rot
push light through the willows.
They weep. I weep.
At your best you were 28
blazing red hair, glass blue eyes
like the sky that reigns love unrequited
on your coffin.
The sunlight that warped your nocturnality,
gleams. Now a spotlight that lights
up all of the letters of a name
never spoken
never spoken again.
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with luck a salter’s fire
with luck a loving hand, wine
in the chalice, companionship
with luck next to the lime tree
tending the key to a vision
no time to hold back
nothing to gamble but hope
nothing to earn but fate
the sharp penny of hindsight
more valuable than the pearls cast away
the heart of the matter:
kissing life full on the mouth:
stones and trees, gentle-breasted birds,
seascapes, mountain streams, ice-lake
sunsets that splash and shimmer and fade
the way an infant is cradled,
the way the child asks about stars,
the way hurt shatters, the way betrayal
burns, the way we cry out on our knees,
the things of this world that shape us
and then what we must do: the ink
that bleeds from our veins, fire
from our tongues: stories
and prayers and hymns and incantations
and the blade of rescue and the
wings of escape, flung free to the wind
flung free to come home again
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what I saw tonight
one man center floor doing stretches to the music
three women dressed in citrus colored lingerie--
princesses, in flipflops and smoking
a bench full of drunks, eager, like the b squad
one hairy man dressed as a female hooker
two small boys throwing rocks up a tree
one couple leaning away from each other
three guys playing guitar barefoot
& one old man waltzing alone
under a june moon.
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The hardest color to explore
with its temper, its embarrassment
People are afraid of red, lust
for red, cry for red like the sad
eyes of a young girl’s face, her arms
reaching through a dark square
of layered red brick encased window,
wine red awning and a sign below:
for rent in red letters
Red is tongue, a fire extinguisher,
a rash, the dried crystal finger nail
polish of the woman with bursting
fingers you met on Valentine’s night
Red is stop right now
Red is go like hell
Red is hell
Red is deep wine, carving spirits,
the color of the booth seats
on the bar side of Harry’s, the color
of the song you hear before falling
in love a little with the singer
You must follow the entire song
before you enter her parts
Red is the heartbeat of the letter
worn by women accused of being female |
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My dreams take me to another world
where beauty lies in thoughts unfurled
where pain and suffering are all unheard
where joy overflows, it's quite absurd.
My dreams take me to another world
oblivious to this one.
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It’d take me ten minutes
to break all yr bones
(ten minutes to break all yr bones) |
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36th and Hennepin, next to him
and a space open.
That day was too much.
The organist had sheet music too grandiose.
Did you pick that out?
If not, who did?
We followed you out of downtown,
Then into uptown,
then here.
I used to put out incense on your new home,
or flowers
I live so close yet,
I don't come here no more.
I don't mean any disrespect.
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i just cannot think about death anymore
and yet I compose this as is without
revision or cutting in this little
rectangle, call it a box,
call it defiance
call it dripping with moss
but what we think of as
a final resting place
is little better than
any low lying parcel
of ground set away
from the rest,
where shade grows
more abundantly than
the light,
and the roots of trees
play footsies with our
fill in the blanks.
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From the obsessive rewriter (with apologies). Just couldn't leave out the updated version. (Can we actually replace our early postings?)
For Britt, At 50
Half a century!
Think this: I’m only halfway there.
There are many more stretches of sand
waiting warm for your toes, and
the cool wash of incoming tides.
There is driftwood to explore
for new moss, for the microscopic
things skittering quick beneath it.
There are trees, thick as a horse’s haunches,
muscling up through concrete sidewalks,
reminding loud that the living outrank man’s formulas.
There are road trips ahead with your four-footed
friend, hypnotized as you swallow the highway again
and again, each mile an adventure (((and a tailwag))).
And there are poems left to write, hovering
just above your pen, there are words swarming
around your head, daring you to snatch them.
There is love. There is love. There is
love to be given and had, to stretch you
better and farther and fresher and new.
And there is you, an only half-finished
tapestry, a palette of ochres, ruby reds,
royal blues alive and swirling in
motion, in motion, in motion.
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A statue rose before us on the road to
the coast, the topstone of mausoleums
for forgotten dead. You said He doesn't know
we don't know him. That makes me sad.
All monuments are tributes to folly, I said.
You stared blankly like you do, your silence
a canyon of doubt between us. It feels like
We met stumbling in darkness and will part
in a light more blinding for lack of it.
Heading toward the coast we linger, shrouds of
ourselves, in ivied cemetaries, waiting.
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1.
the body,
a white
wine
bubbles,
what skin does
hides face
2.
neck,
all the mystery
of a border town
lights off
3.
swivel,
a kind of moral
tale, a sheet
face on
a broken pillow
4.
neck wrist waist
5.
fingers
and patterns
the hollows,
the corners,
in the corner
two
6.
something respectable,
closed mouth
dust and raw
7.
eyes
closed
solace
8.
Knowing pyramids
were there
helps
9.
red and red
my body
painted
i am the wasp
in your navel
10.
tongue
snake eyes
are painted
on my back
only you can see
them |
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at your foot
emptied urn
hollowed
unflowered
void
holding only humid air
or the thickened spit
and scorn of your last visitor
making sure you hadn't moved
any of those moves
you became so famous for
and remembered for
when you should be forgotten
and will be soon enough
as soon as the next grave is filled
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an alex & julia collaboration
In Paris the daffodils are in bloom and we sit outside, sip coffee
from small cups. You take my hand, make up stories
for all the people that stroll by. We let jetlag wipe our minds
clean, and at first, the hours will make no sense and our words
are only sensations.
The river is gray and aloof, jealous of us; we cross
a quiet bridge, buy a baguette,some cheese. In a secluded spot
we lie on our backs, watch the clouds shift, break hunks of bread
slice cheese with a Swiss army knife. I wipe the crumbs
from your lips with my finger and know how it feels
to satisfy every hunger.
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Near the track, a guy, in his sixties, scratches his back
on the chain link fence, like a horse would, slow and
concentrating. The jockeys are paper dolls, small
enough to fold into my pocket. The beer’s half-price—
it’s family night. There is the rumble of horse’s feet
pounding earth—everyone stands, some
race to the finish with the horses. There is nothing
I know like watching a beautiful animal run.
And there is conversation, overheard--
Scattered-- hell what does that mean?
If it wasn’t for Stacy we’d be broke and eating cat food.
Nice flanks on that one
it’s my birthday I can bet if I want to
but what kind of name is that for a horse?
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He tells her
i have lost it
she does not know if it is his story or his mind--
but she does knows what it’s like to lose one’s story,
to be only half written, stranded in the same
dialogue in continuous feed— even the forks
are dull, the rope’s too thin to hang
anything out to dry. He is
fenced in today
she thinks about digging, removing a nail or two,
the sweet sound as it squeezes out of the wood,
the word pry comes to mind, as does clamber and
scramble, torn and busted, concertina
no words
to start the day with
but
words to mull over, then wait
for darkness, the bark of distant dogs
the whistle of a train and a wish made then.
Wishes like stars & stars like ideas,
there are ideas
never-ending, stars never-ending wishes.
And she knows sometimes you have to
close your eyes to see them.
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