Saturday, March 15, 1986

A CAGE FOR THE WIND



Claimed in the beginning faces
of defeated children,
our shadows fall
from the smoking mirror
and hurry through the window.
This harvest of bone,
and dust—wind spews debris
from which to hang the heart
under a nervous moon.
Sweet lies, shipwrecked flesh
could do no better.
Let the wind pass.

 Spring 86






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