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Karl Parker




I pick up my hospital-things and am

happily out the doors, even smiling


at police as I go. So nice to be

in bright day again; to be ambulant


on shade-spattered sidewalks; even

to whistle, if one could. Even without


whistling the following must be true:

the sun’s the center of our lives, or


thereabouts. Light-years away,

massive nucleic fire makes


what we call days, months, years—our

tiny important life-spasms. However


haltingly, I walk past all homes,

through arrangements of hope & fear.



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