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Time Is a Child-biting Dog

ISSUE:  Spring 2008

Like rivers, my thoughts flow south,
for no particular reason.
Must be the full moon
That floods the sky, and makes the night wakeful
and full of remorse.

It’s not here yet, but give it an hour or so, then we,
Bewildered, who want our poems to be clouds
upholding the sour light of heaven
Will pass our grey hair through our fingers
and sigh just a little bit.


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