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ISSUE:  Spring 1978
The junkie kicks the newspaper blocking his way,
swears and spits;
my lower lip is sprayed lightly by his spit.
It is refreshed and cooled
beneath this remarkably clear summer sky
miles from any body of water.

In my dream
there was a little girl riding a wooden horse.
The horse was blue, with a black mane.
The little girl was having a good time
on her black and blue horse,
a better time than we are having.

There are other dimensions,
passageways to other worlds
we hardly recognize:

the slit of light beneath the door
and the slot for mail at the post office
are passageways,

From the darkened lobby of our building
we watch the young women disappear into the bright green
of the elevator.
The door closes, they’ve gone
into a world where the pennies may be silver,
they are gone forever.


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