Secret Communion

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In the secret communion of used

Bookstores, a myth, a glyph or a

Sylph swirls like dust riffling out

Of long ago abandoned house

 

Riffing like time’s magnet,

A piercing wail of multitudes

From the back of the bus –

Where you going mister?

 

Where you got?

Passed the great blonde fields

Where the locusts kick up

The motes of original sin.

 

Bound now like a fetish,

The spine dried brittled yellow

But uncowardly because

How scared are you if you go

 

Anywhere? Anywhere at

All like Tangiers, Hakkaido,

Detroit, Tierra Del Fuego?

The ends of the earth or its center?

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