circles round for
a hoedown. The harvest
moon bellies up to a beehive
I see the moon and a rhyme echoes. Thoughts of him swell through
slate rainbows and spackle fog walkways.
ghosts lie as gray
cobblestones to the moon.
Through the haze my father's hands still
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4, No. 4
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All poems are copyright © 2006 by their respective authors.