by Yaacov Dovid Shulman
You may think that you are a clutch of lavender,
I do not know if you are.
You shampooed your hair,
You breathed in the 2 a.m. breeze,
You tiptoed through mattresses of sleeping children,
You struck your heart, which grew increasingly broader.
That is all that it takes:
A sky as lickety-split as a postage stamp,
A cousin who lives in the Bronx,
A box of matches,
And the reply from the government ministry
That they cannot repeal the law of gravity.
Perhaps you will meet a chameleon
Or watch the braids of brown ants weaving their fall provisions.
Everyone is happy with his porridge.
All right then. Order blackberry wine
And carry it back to your table with two hands.
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