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drought


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The desert waters it's ghost as it paints

a mirage of the rain falling on a rose
trapped in a mirror, hands appear
outside of me like roses on a thorn,
they demand grain, dreams are
watering hope. There is a rose that
exists in  form waiting to be born out
of nature's apparatus, but she will only
offer the thorns of a paradigm that haunts
in camouflage. To some my people are
grains of sand ready to make blind those
whose synthetic sun rows against the
real sun on night's boat. The river's ghost
lays here waiting for the rains. I will flatten
the earth to make it into a parachute, shaking
out silver, gold, sand, and rogues will fall.   
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  • 2 weeks later...

There's a lovely consistency in "nature's apparatus" here, Barry. The focus on grain/grains culminates in the shaking/out (of) silver, gold, sand (and even rogues) each comprised of grains.

Rain/grain and rains/grains is pleasing. The title is perfectly matched with the poem.

Tony

Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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