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Matthew Falk

DANCING

 

…across the plain the policemen

come, elegant as gardens,

possible as gray houses.

We are too busy

verbing our nouns to stop

bored babies from hurling

bolts at journalists who clamor

for instant jets and carrion orchestras.

 

Every bird is not a pigeon.

Not all words are empty

rooms in a falling-down house.

Autonomy: memento mori.

Our hearts are full of the smell

and the color of October.

We sing with our mouths full of rain.

The last exploding laundromat is closed.

 



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