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from Dedications to the Parasites

FOR C.S.

What was said by those
speaking tongues
was real, a trick
of light but without
illumination, clouds
hover in circular orbits
and trees hide debris
from fallen
rocks of space.

FOR A.B.

Set loose 60 pigeons
none returned
cooed intolerance
landing inept
places known as home
tagged but bored
of wobbled landings.

FOR L.J.

You morning minnow
on my pillow
woken by your
flicking charades
of repetition
speaking of absence
as willed shadows
fearful of woods
where all is frightful.

FOR E.S.

Meaning enveloped as night
but really nothing happened
sun setting backwards
no tolerance for willows
wilted upon by
endless swooping.

FOR B.F.

Maze of sea debris
buried in the snow
royal checkers of ugliness
bared on the floor
rubbed emergence on tiles
of figure and figurine.

FOR P.S.

Cells of bone and tonal heresy
fragility not in meaning
nor its execution
but in living at
the edge of belonging
splendid outlaw
of magnet and mackerel.

FOR B.G.

Letters in a child’s hand
written over a lake
that spells lake
so lake exists
and owl sings
while lake appears
and water surrounds
as owl sounds
sings and appears
a thing of nature
but without the word
lake which is
the sound
an owl makes.

FOR C.B.

Such were those
tawny embraces
of moonlight in
a truckload of shine
collided with a pine
but softer, more
at peace was that tune,
it went with
the flow and
the night.