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Monday, April 6, 2015



When the birds reach the place between 
The house and the garage, where the prayer
Flags hang, they turn sideways, so their bodies
Are vertical. There is not quite enough room to 
Pass any other way.  Why they don’t choose
The fly above the passageway confounds me.

Perhaps there is a kind of horizon there
We cannot see, that pushes them, flashing.
The boards of the thing are gone completely.
I ask you why the snows continue?
A malignancy of phantoms devours
The space that has been eased.

In the Catoptric shroud within which 
We dwell, time is stuffing memories
Into its pockets.  Always looking over
Its shoulder to see if we’ve noticed.

I ask you, before I can begin thinking,
What has happened to all horizons?
You begin ripping up even more boards.
The passages become narrower and narrower.
I can see the prayer flags in the distance.
We seem to be traveling extremely quickly.

It was reported that in one village
The enemy gathered all the men into one place
Then shot them in head in the presence of their wives.

One of the women had shouted
“Have you no respect for life at all?’, to them.
They shot her in the head rather than answer
Her question. The passage became even narrower.

I am looking up at the stars tonight.
I can see that there are many fresh stars.
They seem to crowd against one another
Until there is little room between them.

Somewhere in here we will have to turn
Our bodies vertically and lift ourselves
Above the fluttering prayer flags.

We have only seconds to decide when that is.

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