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Monday, August 27, 2012


We sit at the edge of time and watch the needle push
through the material, then disappear
then poke itself back through,
rising and turning like a breaching whale
plunging again,
rising again,
pressing again.

Nothing exists until you name it, then
the name is the bane of the thing.
The poem insists, the poem
until it’s present
until it’s gone.

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