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Balanced

Look out the window sometime; 
with the bold winds dancing through
the Banyan trees it’s pretty in a lanced way, 
a little bodega in the neighborhood-way. 
From the balcony, I can hear gentle laughter 
of soccer boys and soccer girls 
kicking dogwood trees instead of soccer balls. 
Damn, if it doesn’t get me every time. 
If I were older, I would have fled the scene
and left the dimes and dollars for a loss—
but the balanced way the sun light 
hits the nonsense breeze — 

makes me look left and right 
and over and under every time.

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Citizens

Pink lips fleshy in the strength 
of a noon day sun, bright against
a man with white hair, the lips moving 

endlessly near the crosswalk. 
I couldn’t hear what he 
was saying. I don’t think he could

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Blue Jays


Tough. (I don’t feel tough though, my tongue 
is on the gritty floor and covered in dirt and
debris from a weekend of debauchery. I don’t 
feel anything other than tired.) I’m told the 
blue jays mate even when they’re dying, as if 
evolution could not hold a reverent bow 
for the last breath of an angry bird. Supposedly 
that attitude was in the contract I signed 
a year ago, though the angry part suits me 
the best. I didn’t used to be so angry. 

I think I used 
to be tough. 

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Nunnery

For all intents and purposes 
I’m in a nunnery here. 

The walls are perfectly 
seamless, creased at the edges 
like good walls, the good girls 
the good cockroaches the good 
Lord will take it all away 
When He So Wishes. 

Fair enough. 

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Honestly

From destiny comes our definition for 
curiosity — ragged dog-eared library books 
waiting for the reshelving, theoretically loved 
but abused
nonetheless. 

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Masquerade

Blow and above 
the great cloudline puffs 

digging heels in the volcano crater
little tail wrapped neatly along the coast.

It’s been an age since I’ve seen it done
but there the birds go again

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Rhapsody of a Geode

Grace dissolves the graceless rendering rock 
stone again
bone again 
time and time again 
I coat the palms of my hands 
with a working class mentality. 
Having made this 
I forget what to do with it. 

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The Idea of Order

Here I am, an old woman in the hooded doorway 
of a young woman’s life 
the twist of my hand like a spent willow 
from a distance a sapling unbent
the nature of the willow. 
I have lost objectivism. Why should I keep it? 
What good has my rooting in the ashes done
but smear the blackened ink against the window-pane 
like an early frost. My doorway is wide. 
I can see the barefoot children lapping at the wind
webbed fingers swiping wildly at the breeze
that twists and tickles them with their own ringlets. 

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A Game of Chess

Having invented time, Father Pigeon 
folded his feathers against his chest

and reclined in his Great Wicker Chair. 

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A Net to Snare the Sunlight

Regard the sun. 
She winks with lashes tall as lies
she smooths the edges of her liquid
grin and calls the birds to flight 
before my eyes. Can but even one 
crab make it across the black lava rock 
before the tide folds itself 
once more upon the shore? 
I would extend my stick to him 
if I could, but my hands dissolve
against the wood and I come to rest. 
Three o’clock. Ticking. Ticking. 

Trace the time against the pale sky 
to find the start of evening. I would if I could. 

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Plot Against the Giant

The willow won’t sway
the sage won’t scent 
the goldfinch won’t nest 
the life vest will not inflate 
the eyes won’t widen 
the sun won’t care 
the ink won’t flow 
the war-lords will not congregate
the clouds won’t lift 
the swans shall stay put endlessly 
the sea to be a never-ending barren witlessness
& the darkness never felt 

The tongue is a dream.
Nothings happens unless first a dream. 

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Guardian