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Saturday, January 8, 2011

In Passing

I have myself
held a newborn son,
living,
but too young to live.

These grief trains
have no doors to open,
no common measure of their loads.
Just a wave, then,
through a clouded window,
from one passing
on a distant track.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Blueberry Smoothie

Shocking shard of glass
on my tongue that becomes ice
as it disappears.