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Poetry

Hold up your palms
to the darkness
little one;
be pierced
with light.

Come here for what,
for irony and progeny,
short years
of rising up
and passing on?

As if there were an end
to transience,
as if it could ever pass
for shelter
or resting place.

Reason is lost upon
such reasonableness
when you have been
here so long
it seems like forever.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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