The life is torn.
After the violent explosion,
the bits
float away,
downstream,
dreamily, slowly,
while you stand
watching.
Unreturnable.
The loved life -
the solid-seeming life,
the future plans.
They look beautiful,
the torn pieces,
floating away.
--Deanna Hopper
a train whistle dies
far away in the night . . . . . . silence
the first bird awakens
- - Patrick Mizelle
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