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Saturday
Nov202004

annie said -- for j.d.

Annie said, Never mind.
It is over. If she could
get over it, then by God,
so could i. All the nights
of tearshed, empty bed,
or sorrow that snaps fresh
as laundry on a line. See,
these hands, reddened
rough, tired. So much
dirty linen! We air it,
yet still, it is soiled. Nights
i am a ghost: Maiden MacBeth,
I scream at the spots
to out, out out --
they pay no heed.
Hands ubnclean. All remains.
Yesterday's pain, tomorrow's sorrow.
Try, fight each ghost
still they rattle heavy
chains, keep sleep
far at bay. All night
the waves crash beneath
a cool and heavy moon,
the sea flows fast down
my street, and brings with
it heavy stones and sea-silt,
the stuff that crashes and crushes,
the sorrow that smashes,
the heart that bangs like a stone.

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