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Jan 132010
 

by Timothy Martin


Which somehow, unfathomably, in an angels-bending-to-tie-

their-shoes moment, she missed.  And was spared the memory

of aught else until she awoke, supine, her bones

in archipelagos, having missed her mother’s burial

(passenger seat) by two days.  And, as if guilt

were moving through the cosmos as easily as

lava through a spun-sugar valley, then

had to endure the days of father with his lover,

for whom she had dusted a place with a noxious cloth

of chance (father becoming suddenly generous at Christmastime,

though meeting all her gazes with eyes hinged on trapdoors).


Chauffeur of causality, crumpled soul, sister to us all,

stop awhile.  I would willingly ride with you,

nor ever fault your judgment, nor be amazed at

the acceleration from the intersection of lively things.