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"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen

Wednesday, November 12, 2014


I wake in the nether morning thinking I hear her voice
But it's just the planes leaving for the Middle East
rumbling like peace far above, when really
I know they're loaded for death

If I squint my eyes to slits I can make rainbows dance
in the bedroom doorway and sometimes I see
her figure shadowing there - a shimmer of light
that disappears if I blink

How can it be that breathing is still as normal
as this but she's not in evidence anywhere,
not in the now nor in the later,
Where in the atmosphere has she disappeared to,
how can this possibly be

This child of my own that I carried beneath my heart
and could feel growing and beating her tune
If she still breathes and I know that she does, why is it I
cannot reach her, cannot make her hear me

A sound not unlike living surrounds me
and beats back my thoughts; I give in to it
Give in to the normalcy I shrug into like a cloak,
slide into another day of pretend
There's nothing else to be done, what difference
will it make after all.

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