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All That Was Lost Is Returned The TV was broken, but my father kept turning the dial. There was something he wanted to watch that night. At the kitchen table my mother was drawing in her eyebrows. Children I knew from school lurched down the road in the front of our house with suitcases held together by rope. It wasn’t dark, and then it was, and the flames swayed despite the lack of wind. The poet gestured to me to follow him over the high railing of the bridge. I looked around for help. A woman stood on the corner with her hip thrust out. Six years passed in a minute. Such things are true if you believe them.
To a Literary Suicide You go over the railing, following the black thread
embedded in the map you were given
back at the start, the wings of bat-faced angels
slashing the clouds now that you’re falling
and such light as you can make out
suddenly like the first few yellow leaves on a tree.
t o p |
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