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How Many Times

Ken Rumble

The white truck illuminant, spelled cargo
drowsy in the sine wave of ruts and left
turns.  The snow has time, take the horizontal –
talk about skiing, we know the bud,
bare in the sand and forgotten.  The cold
is always there, so we take
the train, ask for galoshes, see a barber
now and then.  The wood sticks as much
as burns – the whole hard or
the half in water.  There are grass huts
as if living under the dress of a hula girl.
Milkshake, orange shake – it’s a double diamond
that takes your breathe out
to share juice with two straws.  Watch
the pedestrian show, leave a tip and wash
your hands – the service is atrocious but the atmosphere
is habitable.  And this flake chases
that one and so many chase and
chased – movement makes
movement – stillness is.  The grass
is green below and above
about the castle and the lake.

Ken Rumble

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