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Updated: Nov 25, 2020

I emerged from my door

and carried into my present

moment the quivering skeleton

of a whom this poem is for,


a what is trying to be accomplished.


We are the escape artists.

We point the way out.

We paint the way out with words,


words that could only

lead to freedom,


words that cannot

save themselves.


We who sit bandy-legged and

wonder it means, bandy-legged.


We waterways,

undertumble gold borne

freshwater ready or not

just follow me.


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