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Poetry

Eleven Aprils

by Barrett Warner


    Somewhere I hear kids barking
    diesel smells baking off the highway
    eleven kinds of feeling bad somewhere
    the kids throwing stones at bottles
    recycling their tall angers
    into crazy bird-like laughter.

    This is when caterpiller bulbs
    butterfly out of the ground,
    onion grass like wild hair
    and eleven kinds of green
    smile out of the earth.
    How can there be so many ways
    to live and only one to die?

    Eleven Aprils circling about
    like the first measure of time
    pictures and wrinkles on the stone
    the oldest look at the sky,
    that first look, that memory
    that big secret of stars and wonder
    holding Sara in my arms
    with eleven kinds of April in our eyes.

    Long stares out the window
    as the the ten years march ahead
    leaving April on the ground,
    a month, a decade, a lifetime
    a furtive glance good bye
    eleven numbers on a fast clock
    missing an hour, week to week
    missing hours, and somewhere
    one last look at the sky
    one last way to live
    one last look from the window
    watching her drive, drive away.

    One last look at the sky.

 

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