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Even the crippled, the cringing,

the beggars squatting cross-legged

among balls of dung along

the road, squeezed forth by

shanty walls, have leave to sink

to dappled chairs on public grass;

inhale spring air; accept soft

sunbeams’ kind massage.

We are

those forms behind the wire -- dispersed stray

point-men in an ancient war, two

breaths from barbed despair. If

fortune smiles, beware: the smile

is thin. Cascading disappointments

are foreshadowed there.

Poetica Magazine, Fall 2016

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