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He Is Totally

Ken Rumble

She feels as much as dances,
a Coptic step without nails, cerulean revelations
with moons painted flamingo, the painted snake
and the choirboy who loved the way the loft kept them
all together.  Sandwich bread, hold the mustard, mayo
both sides: a treaty between faces –
the dough was always good for weddings
or funerals: shaking the chimes, lighting the incense,
desert early in the course.  Flow down and around –
pool now: there’s no of course only persistence
The way wind never tires, has no direction,
finds you by the gazebo asking for foccacia
with tomato.  The jitterbug, yes, but never
the hulapopper: squeak in before her card is full.
What the fish always need, what they say –
don’t ask them to speak:
you already know.

Ken Rumble

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