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ISSUE:  Spring 1998

for Darryl

Let the big waters wash over us.
No one will know we were here
in the small offices of our souls,
gathering the light that floats
on motes of dust.

Others were quoted,
placed in the stone pantheon.

Yet we, too, ran our fingers
through glittering strands
of star hair,
tippled on mysteries,
murmured beloved theories.

Oh, yes, we were there with them,
sporting in the same
celestial playroom.
And if the world took little notice,
how should we complain?
Busy as we were
in the only universe we knew,
through the briefest of eternities,
celebrating our fame.


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