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C. D. Wright | 391 My Dear Conflicted Reader, If you will grant me that most of us have an equivocal nature, and that when we waken we have not made up our minds which direction we’re headed; so that—you might see a man driving to work in a perfume- and dye-free shirt, and a woman with an overdone tan hold up an orange flag in one hand, a Virginia Slim in the other—as if this were their predestination. Grant me that both of them were likely contemplating a different scheme of things. where do you want to spend eternity the church marquee demands on the way to my boy’s school, smoking or non-smoking. I admit I had not thought of where or which direction in exactly those terms. The radio ministry says g-o-d has a wrong-answer button and we are all waiting for it to go off. . . . Dear Child of God, If you will allow me time. To make a dove. I will spend it Well. A half success is more than can be hoped for. And Turning on the hope machine is dangerous to contemplate. First I have to find a solid bottom. Where the scum gets hard and The scutwork starts. One requires ideal tools: a huge suitcase Of love a set of de-iced wings the ghost of a flea Music intermittent or ongoing. Here. One exits the forest Of men and women. Here. One re-dreams the big blown dream Of socialism. Deep in the suckhole. Where Lou Vindie kept Her hammer. Under her pillow. Like a wedge of wedding cake. Working from my best memory. Of a bird I first saw nesting. In the razor wire. ...

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