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Living Statues

ISSUE:  Spring 1993
By the rules you stop in that pose
fixed when the signal came. You watch
their faces. Your hand flung out
almost touches Anita’s hand.

If it’s ever over and they don’t move,
the sun floats away, the moon
sets in the tired branches of the elm.
Down the street porchlights go out.

Rivers flow, now and then a cliff
crumbles, a season passes, old buildings
collapse and sink into nothing.
Maybe some games never end.

There was always going to be
a new set of rules, a different
sound beyond the houses. Breathing
the hard air you stand faithful.


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