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A Month of Sundays
Kathleen Hellen
In the exaggerated light of perigee
I pitter-patter to the bus stop in my flip-flops.
The minute lengthening1 like a fenced-in shadow on
a lit-up field ... the diamond sparkling, the trees like silent sentries
I can count on when a truck comes up, its headlights ducking between
who toss the football, a joke or two. I speak their language with a nod up,
the way it ought to be, never down, never chin tucked under.
auctioned off. The moon's a base ... or so it seemed ... when was it?
in some belief. A flag planted, light-yeared on what's noble.
Michael Jackson's Walk not jive hallucination.
I follow in the footprints, in orange imitation
of a streetlight. I give all my hopes to seas
or to a rabbit rice-cake-making.
I take the bus to somewhere on
the near side of the pie.
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