Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2011 v10n1
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AGITATION: reconciliation

Maybe it wasn’t a him.
           Maybe it was a shadow from puppet strings of light
                      and smoke or a blindered horse bolting.
                                   Maybe it was a bad-eyed animal
that limped and slurred. Maybe it was something that breathed but had no
Not him but a whack of dust.

            Imagine being air that cannot drop
            cannot land     cannot hurt

            Imagine not being able to die
            not having a hand in things

                      Give me your hand, O you who might not be a him, as you
                                 handed your hand before—insistent
                      as a leash.

(Memory is a small patch of dirt
by a tree where nothing grows. An actual place.
The tree dead in its tracks.)

                      Give me your hand. May it turn from rope to flesh. Where might I take you
                                 this time      without imagination    only the facts    back
to the tree where you felled me
                   where the tree did nothing but sprawl in moonlight   O beautiful!
                                                        (O tree!)

Give me your hand       May I release my own   end

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