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Poetry

Under this skylight many lost things are visible.
I see the mighty black and yellow spiders in the iris beds

by the old garage and feel not a shred of fear.
I could husk two dozen sticky ears of sweet corn

and pick two quarts of strawberries on my achy knees
without whining once. I could hit four baseballs

in a row under the maple trees and over the fence,
the only kind of home run that counts in my private game.

I could sit through the whole Sunday night service
in the stickiest dusk of July and not once imagine

committing the unpardonable sin, just to see
if anything would change. I could sing Just as I am,

thine own to be seven times through and never switch
to “Mr. Tambourine Man” in my head, never dream

of dancing ’neath the diamond sky, just as I am
thine own to be, silhouetted by the sea, without

a single plea, hey, hey, I am weary, play another song
for me, an old song that I’ve never heard, play it

smooth and loud and long, play “The Boy Who Listened
Too Hard,” play “The Boy with Dirt in His Nose,”

play “The Boy Whose Eyes Are Still Closed.”


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