Friday, February 23, 2007

Suppose, Too

(Okay, maybe this is called revision, but perhaps re-vision would be better. Or some other sort of vision that I can't quite put my finger on. Morning always brings something new. I come back to revisit a moment and I'm pulled somewhere else...)

This time is called dying.
The ice groans, shifts
The lake waits to be reborn.

The wind rises in California
A cloud forms.


Your friends are folded up in the closet
Summer linens grown too thin
At dinner parties they tell the same stories
You’ve heard fifteen times before

How brave poor baby Danny was
The time they took him shopping
Never complaining
All the time his little toe
Bent backwards in his shoe

The winter sunlight submerges your kitchen
In drenching amber hues.
Note the long icicles dripping
The rows of golden cornstalks
Peeking through fields of snow

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