Words seep down. To you, to me,
To them. Words come home, they have The power to tremble glass. It’s scary For everyone. The cows calve, The rain falls on dust. The golden Suncup, the fairy duster, the Apache Plume, the desert bloom, the might, The kind words—your throat is still scratchy-- The calm, cool morning. And above The copper devil’s claw, the blue Blazes, the air pulses, even If you fall asleep, still, you See that blue. You can start to talk, Even to those who clearly are Not you. “Come to me, you With your back to me, playing guitar.”
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Yaacov David Shulman
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September 2019
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