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Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Floating figures are by Michael Sowa but I don't think the pig in the soup is by him.


A drifting in the heart. Long

Sounds that find no solace. No matter

Where they go they remain wanderers.

We will find them on the shores of the lake

After storms that rip the lining of the night

Easily from its darling moon.

Someone must have seen where the careful

Touch has gone, where the sandals cut

The crust of the morning away from the bread

And no hand, oh pretty creatures they are,

could move move as brutally, tearing the stars

Down from the black lion of night,

All kindness gone, its blue cart tipped

On its side in the crowded streets.

No one wonders any longer

Dammit all anyway all they ever

Wanted were blankets to keep warm

And just a touch of a hand,

Someone to say, “Do not be afraid at all.”

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