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It Takes You
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Through the asylum streets
where the rain butters my hands
and mowed weeds scatter in piles on the curbs,
I look for your familiar figure
rushing between rush-hour strangers.
My bed is stale
with you wandering
from donut shop to open stages
silent and bewitched
by the lunar
mouth.
I reach my hand to cup
an autumn leaf descending
and feel
feather-dust
feather blown.
© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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Published in “Synchronized Chaos” November 2018
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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