Poem
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| (Picture found here) |
in the body. Lonely,
it wants the day to come back for it:
a jacket left at the coat check,
the dance floor deserted.
There is no wisdom in the poem,
but it repeats its small life as many times
as we ask. The poem is everybody's
mother, remembering what can't be found,
remembering who you are, remembering
what hasn't even happened yet.
~Sue Sinclair
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