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Something in me dried.
It climbed out of the window,
shuttered up the storefront
and smashed the fishbowl in the street.

Though it waged and fought the war,
slew some bogeys, freed a maid,
it could not save the sonnets,
nor stave the hardening of the bark.

Beneath the murder of dreams,
the battered milieu holds,
clinging stubborn to its locus.
and refusing to be mapped.

If I owned a car,
I would drive it o’er this hero’s creed.
I’d bury costume, cup and cape
in a heather field’s heart.

I will hang a spell around my neck,
releasing more at the risk of all.
For I tire, beyond measure,
of painting canvas white.


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