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028 (5)


They do not fly in that perfect vee of childhood

Anymore, but in clumps, gristly bits, one or two shifting hard

To sustain a rhythm amid electrical wires, others

Falling into a slack skipping rope over the river.

And still the crying going on.

I told you yesterday I would write a poem

That does not plummet once into nostalgia,

Just one, but it seems I cannot.

There is nothing in me that is not somehow

Old & looking back, upon a child

Who was already old & looking back too.