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Published: Wed Jul 01 2009
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AGNI Online


for my father

When I give it away
and it comes back
blown to bits, windburnt,
sheared to pulp, when I do that
and know its name is still
something without burden attached,
something which sleeps
and owns nothing, that is when
I am finished wanting more for it,
though it has trouble breathing
and can no longer sing.  That is when
the watercolor edge of things
grows both alien and sure.  And no warning
in the weather hopes to change us.  It is here
where nothing has been
it stands and blooms
regardless of care.  Our hands
dip into a pool
that has grown cold

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