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          Lake Champlain
          By Lyn Lifshin

          We could hear Louis Armstrong
          if the wind blew right.
          Across the lake, we
          listened to the baby

          sitter's stories
          of what they did to children
          in Germany in the tunnels,
          my mother's cigarette, a

          firefly on the porch across
          the dark jade grass, a
          night light. I imagined
          hair straight as the

          girl at the rink with
          one green eye, one blue
          one, her gaze hypnotic
          as the stories of what

          people might do. I

          didn't know what
          might uncoil in the night.
          Or that, though I felt

          I was storing up sun,
          catching light like
          minnows, in the fall
          ahead there wouldn't
          be one night I didn't

          wake up screaming
          in dreams of fire

          © Copyright 2004, Lyn Lifshin, All Rights Reserved.

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Document last modified on: 09/28/2004

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