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Thursday, June 15, 2017

Pamela Carter ----- poem


What if we did that — swooped
low over lawns and skimmed
for our dinner the way a swallow
scoops insects from mid-air
on sweet June afternoons?
What if we awakened
and dwelled not on his being gone,
nor on the emptiness he carved
in going, nor on him, a haunt,
no matter how friendly,
but on the solid objects
before us: the kettle, the bib,
the bird in motion, the palm
of the baby’s hand as it waves
at the swift flight, and the new moon
coffee crescent which stains
this last page with daily habit?
Would our tears dam
against our lids? Would he lose
presence in our minds? Would he promise
to return to our dreams in his tiger-striped socks

to dance again with the ecstatic dog?

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