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Hidden Weapons

















What of these jagged mornings. Two men pull the ropes 
from east coast and southwest to settle their mother's estate 
by telephone. My daughter builds an energy efficient house in miniature on her bedroom floor as confidence flags for the day's history test; knives and scissors hidden everywhere under cardboard.


Yesterday having eaten too much sugar, I rise with a headache and neck like a warped board. The dog dreams a heart attack in the chilly shadow of the 8 a.m. study. Her belly breathes a snare drum of staccato yelps.


For these minutes the mourning dove's calling is overridden with traffic streaming like water that I cannot hold back. I walk the hallway with my fingertips on the walls as if braille were the surrender. Signal to knowledge of what will arrive next. 'tis the season of concrete and hammers.


Taut wire will hold us together. Press down on the tongue and respect one another.




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