Sunday, March 11, 2007


I lie awake into the heart of a soft summer night,
Listening to the cicada shove life forward,
Beat upon beat, until their wild shrill pulse
Is swallowed silent as a memory into time,

Then begins. Again.

And I remember once a woman passed this way
Into the heart of a long ago summer,
On the wild, shrill scream of a generation then alive.
In their ending silence she became nothing, no more

Than a name. Alison.

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