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from the September 2005 issue


The sea's color is green.
The white sand is stained with blood.
An old woman dies at the diner, underfed,
under prepared. The telephone only takes phone cards.

Some people are hard to recognize, even
on the street. Already April, and here, imagine it,
snow. Contradictions, contradictions. Eh,
it's better late than at all, better at all.

So we can't live more now? Even when we're by ourselves
we invoke metaphors of the heart.
Imagine a situation where it never occurs to you
to think of any other situation.

For the next poem in this sequence, click here.

Read more from the September 2005 issue
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