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Abashed
If you're having some trouble making sense of it all�sit
down beside me on the curb, I'll explain: the reflections
of silvery wings glazed onto mirrors, of aerialists
tumbling to earth. Listen.
These are the sounds of human children,
on fire. Listen to the sound of jets, roasting
a playground. Pull up some sidewalk
beside your Uncle Sam. Listen
for the donkey chained to a fence�braying.
No time left
for piano lessons.
And I in my kerchief and ma in her cap.
Having just been awakened: black coaches,
gray vests.
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