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Translating Footsteps She says Go fuck yourself when I say Good-bye & good luck with potted plants under a granite moon. A hand reaches from behind to slash my throat. Some things refuse translation: the way I place my hands under red silk to hear a thin-skinned drum; language of growing grass; tombed treaties forgotten like lamps left to burn out in a ghost town. Each pause a clock inside stone ... digital, monumental as a grain of wheat. Translate this mojo song, footsteps in a midnight hallway. My doors enter from the sidestreet, my windows painted basement black, my mouth kisses the blues harp, my heart hides like notes locked in a cedar chest. 39 from Dedications & Other Darkhorses ...

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