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A Poem: I Don't Honk So 

I mean I don’t think so.
Because every time I open
a big fat mouth of mine,
it’s like an aberrant keyboard
making thistles out of whistles
and crow out of Velcro.

There was a time when speaking
could be as clear as a moving cloud
over a frozen lake, the horizontal
sun as quiet and elucidating
as a spruce in shadow showing
its shadow. Then it is dark.

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