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Duane Locke |
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THE DOOR The door is gone. Only empty space Where the door once stood, The door then always closed. The door was pulled From its hinges And burned to stop The knocking on the door. The door is now gone, Only empty space Where the door once was, But the knocking continues. MY FEET My feet, My feet bare Among bleached shells On white wet sand Were blessed When darkened By the shadow Of a sea gull Flying over my feet. Crossed by The darkness Of the sea gull's shadow My feet Were blessed For a few seconds, But I was blessed eternally And was transformed To live a new dedicated life. BISTRO In the bistro She sung From a dim lit stage Sad bistro songs. The sadness of her songs was false, Thus was loved by the audience. The singer's sadness was real, Thus overlooked by the audience. SCISSORS, LILIES, ROSES Scissors, Lilies, roses On her black scraf Now limp On a black table. She left her scissors, She left her cut lilies, She left her black scarf On the black table She also had forgotten her camera. She had photographed The skin over my heart, Photographed the shadows Caused by the beating of the heart. She had forgotten her camera. Scissors, Lilies, roses On a black scarf Now limp Upon a black table. |