A Quartet


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1

this poem is a finder of voices,
its spectral form lingers
in the midst of human turmoil
looking for an empathic match
and, when found, it bridges
the divide between them
and changes

2

this poem is a tree
waiting for the birds
to return and fill it
with their songs.

3

For a moment
this poem
made sense.

Then
that moment
was over

4

This is poem is dead.
Killed in its mother’s womb.
It’s brain matter extruded,
just for a pack of cigarettes
in a chilling war game.
This poem wanted to play games too,
games that little children play.

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