Monday, July 29, 2013

Narrative Difference

Narrative Difference


I’ve been driving my car around town
up and down the braille of pot-holed streets

Looking for the music of doubt.  Always
the shroud of sky.  Always the eager

electric tongue interrupted.
Truth wavers in and out of reach

Like a white flag that’s been washed too many times.
Hindsight helps us forget the human face of survival.

Over dinner, children diminished to
voices heard through closed windows, bikes circling

the drive way like red and blue planets.  Choices
are not what we've recorded.  Instead,

A conglomerate of sense—a way
to see from individual to whole. 

A way to circle and circle a center—
gravel popping beneath our tire’s weigh.


Her Aunt was employed by the Gestapo to screen
phone activity.  She ignored the red flag words

that pulsed out like blood—Instead she reported
what could not be condemned.  Stood

the only ground she had.  However pot-holed.
However much the sky pressed down
into the eyes of puddles.

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