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have to fend for ourselves with our bare hands. There is a park nearby, and we begin to converge upon it. It has large, open spaces where we will be able to lie down and rest and perhaps make our beds there for the night with what linen and bedclothes we were able to rescue from inhuman hands. It's all over, it seems, that which gave us our comforts and pleasures. It's back to the woods and fields. Did anybody bring a knife or a gun with which to hunt a rabbit or a bird? We look at each other, beginning to understand. Midnight It's midnight, the house silent, in the distance a musical instrument being played softly. I am alone. It's as if the world has come to an end on a low musical note. Blue The sky makes no sense to me. What is it saying? Blue? That blue is enough? The blue of emptiness? A small cloud trails beneath the sky as if to make a point about its pride in being a body, white, welcome to the eye. The cloud drifts out of sight. In its absence, I will walk beneath the sky, slowly drifting in and out of streets and bars. 704 | Poems of the 1970s ...

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