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Post by MoonyLuna on Feb 22, 2009 11:49:45 GMT -5
Now that the festive singers are gone and only the single star remains sharp and distant, why recall when women came caroling at night, dressed in caps and gowns dark as the air around them? Allowed to stand inside where rough winds only reached my ankles, a rising tide and undertow too slow to harm me then, I watched their mouths go round to bursting notes they flung in eddies, and when a singer saw me she smiled, keeping time to her inner rhythms. I leaned into music and air, leaned into night beyond their lanterns and capes and tousled hair where a moon shrugged against the clouds and that single star impaled was a note pitched too high to hear, burning and burning as if it might be a sign, the bright and shining point of a knife.
copyright T. Alan Broughton
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Post by MoonyLuna on Feb 22, 2009 11:50:31 GMT -5
Featured Poet T. Alan Broughton
T. Alan Broughton's most recent books are his sixth collection of poems, The Origin of Green (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2001), and a collection of short stories, Suicidal Tendencies (Colorado State University Press, 2003). A seventh collection of poems, A World Remembered, is forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon.
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