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We are a splintered glass.
The lights hailed hot,
ferried from freedom.
A pear thief’s malice
caught us a cold–
so an apple a day–
and the silver lines
spread and sawed, shards
jigged in our throat.
Anthills boil over
and suns hung with
clustered grapes
pern in petalled pendula, yeasty
laughter shakes from stars
through burnt black holes
of time’s threefold
negativity
flowing
over you, over
me, so
it is us;
you are me
on your islands
over silver bands of sea.
Our hearts trembled
under organ blasts
beat back, echoing
from the future’s
chambered symphony,
electric chords of G
unsettling the snares
as all is
washed away,
Bachic Toccata
bellows its blooms
Terror mirrors laughter,
the pair in the prudent hand.
Image looks to Image,
deep calls to deep,
and still in the swift bed
we touch the Word’s tears
sprinkled on stones
in the singing dawn.
The exuberant school courses,
Threatening blessing
just beyond our depth.
Stone smoothes to earth,
earth rises wheat,
wheat freshens flesh.
Trust time.

Daniel Fitzpatrick lives in Hot Springs, AR, with his wife and daughter. The three enjoy micro-farming, Russian novels, and Dr. Seuss. Daniel’s poems have appeared here and there, and he hopes to complete his first novel soon.

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