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For Jack and Lisa


For at least an hour,

the sun buries its head.

Obligatory clouds

scatter their shadows. Corners

widen, dulling their edges,

leaving all things exposed.


With nowhere else to go,

eyes close and welcome sleep.

In dreams an unlit candle

keeps melting, baring, thread

by thread, its bald white wick—

a string to tie the finger.


Waking to remember

what should be given, the eyes

search through the window, knowing

that if the city sky

housed any stars they would

be wished on, and wished on for you.


Michael T. Young



From Transcriptions of Daylight, Rattapallax
Press, © 2000; originally printed in Pivot.
Reprinted by permission of the author.

Background by
Little House Graphics

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