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Mark Wallace

It's easy to get through when the streets are empty.
But when the state has a funeral, planes shoot by
and it's time to remember anyone you can.
A towering story sucks everything in

and you don't have hands anymore. You don't know
the thing you most knew. Banners proclaim
that it's love that's brought you to your knees,
sweating. And you don't have hands anymore.

There's more dream here than has seized you before
but you know who dreamed it and you weren't there.
A man rushes past, shouts "Trouble," blinks hard.
Soldiers huddle by a jet, waiting for your body.

Long ago on the wind, illusion seemed impermanent.
Now, like a dead man, you lean forward and start to talk.


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© Copyright 2006 Mark Wallace & Trout.