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Breathing Everyone lives, but for him azure skirts of a remembered Mary enfold gray mountains like a robe the sorrowing son. Mother of Heaven, here sits a stranger. His pronouns deflect attentions. A kid misses school; an unseen person has let out the dogs. The bus goes; curious children crane necks to see who calls. Rooftops float in a well of silence. The sky cuts doors from walls. During composition, the poet thinks less than others to manage affairs.
Donald Wellman | Mudlark No. 34 |