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Friday, January 29, 2010


Gypsy light, crosswind,
the same question over and over
again, sun burned into skin, pretty
river glass polished in brown sand, then
unearthed among the torn

ghost cups, anonymous Styrofoam
litter, moonfish, tiny spider
conch shells, every found and tossed back
pebble sifted from sand
through my hands, collected
in pockets of graphite and ink
uprooted ever since the Potomac
whispered, Run Away, it's a trick …

And I let the trick play on my own eyes,
sad fire-keepers, guiding the woman
you could not have known
I would become, strong and winter wild,
but smaller than a star, quiet

and still, right there, waiting for the night
you might look up, just once
remember, wish.

Eliza Kelley, NY (more)

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