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Jul 092011
 

by Carmen Rabil-Eichman

I slide into the center circle

of God’s palm, precisely, promptly

slip between a finger or

two, fall on my head missing

heaven, its hard right turn.  Winter winds

whip wicked songs within my hair

and press my nervous inverted introspection

against a window glass at my desk,

frigid reflections I bust to pieces with

pragmatic preoccupations donned as

passionate  kisses searing dusts of doubt,

winding languid legs around and locking

coffers of my dreams beneath feathered covers

before gaining lift and flying to tree top heights

out of reach to all but the reticent red cardinal

carefully catching my enigmatic thoughts

escaping each morning.