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Three Pieces On A Sunday

In by Chris on October 24, 2010 at 12:59 pm

They placed the pebbles in rings
like the ripples from a fish’s jump.
The dirt sang softly to them,
full of mushrooms and rotting leaves,
full of dreams and planet.

“You’re no spring chicken yourself.”
“More like a fall turkey.”
“Or a Canadian goose in the summertime.”
“Or a ptarmigan in Denmark.”

I hear that my friend fell in love with a paleontologist. I have not seen him in many years, but I imagine her to have flaxen hair and a pair of spectacles. They probably had a simple kind of love that became complicated when New York City encroached.

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