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Our book

At the night’s end is our own book,
A certain recorded history in pages
That lie buried in collected memory.

Memory is our little wiggling thing
A rogue tongue wagging little hope,
And rasping sarcasm where it curls.

Our book is not in papyrus of river
But an electric thought’s screaming,
Flowing relentlessly to grand irony.

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Everyone’s song

Someone’s song is here behind me,
Bodies sing alike , in separate sleep,

Their words drawn from same sleep,
And sound ancient skeletal remains.

Sounds are like a scream on bridge,
Like market din rising above prices

Of snake gourds lying curled in bags.
Someone’s song is a market sound

A common sleep’s continuing song
Skeletal remains of mankind’s song.

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Self-portrait

This shadow is my body at sunset
At window for sun’s daily farewell,
Eye softly shut before daily sleep.

Window shuts a sun’s eyes softly.
My body stands fearless at sunset
On floor dappled by ripe sunlight.

It stands upright beside tall clock
Wedged between sleep and time,
Looks sunset in the eye defiantly.

(Admiring Edward Munch’s self-portrait painting made in his dying years)