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By Simon Perchik Where is this tree going, footsteps as if the snow never saw these leaves and reaches underneath --a silver maple snagged, and from the clearing stars pick up the scent swarm like flies around a sore --each branch looking at its tracks on the ground as crowds still toss rice or ticker-tapes or flowers though the tree has long ago forgotten what was celebrated that fall, and my eyes trying to move --that much the tree remembers how at a time half the world still burned it taught them to blink to clear the path thunder would follow --my eyes couldn't close fast enough. They never saw the darkness, the fire fall --yes! yes! what a fire! still in a heady breeze, my eyes still reminded, will flush the dents the blown-out parts --every spring I re-paint, still, in the warm dawn suddenly the house white, disguised, more ice on top held near, wherever it's going. |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007