Tuesday, April 10, 2012


The sky is heavy with almost.
The forecast: showers. The seedlings
will lift their leaves, stretch
their roots deeper.
I want to leave. Go to a place on a boat,
not here. God hasn't come to me,
to tell me to build an ark.
But something's moving me--
today, the wind kicked up and I thought
it might lift me, carry me, with the plastic
bags and candy wrappers, away.

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