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Hourglass Years: A Poetry Anthology

Our blood's a confident saline solution
that says we first arrived out of this sea
experimentally, and resolution
has brought us back to nature admirably.
Yes. and there's something in the mind that says
until we loved we wasted all our days.
Man's no amoeba, though, and must have thought
himself into the thickets and the hills
and built himself a contract, prayed, and sought,
Promethean, a cure for nature's chills.
Are we abetting death by this dark ocean,
Regressing to an algae-like commotion?
My heart and body reach for wisdom's string
that always pulled me out of a bad place.
But thought's become a sea that will not sing
without my mind's consent and body's grace.
Here by this tepid, weatherbeaten shore
love rocks the waves, and we're a semaphore.
telephone numbers
they are as intimate
as tenderness, and hate,
private, personal. limited
as something one might have said,
conveyed in undertones.
so that all soon may murmur at their phones,
and when they are revealed
they intimate the depths that are concealed.
choice morsels
distributed to some sweet few, or all.
when they are told
the voice is carefully neutral, soft and cold.
as Sarah Bernhardt
reciting the alphabet
excited violent passions,
these digits, in their fashions
convey al1 that is to be known.
and now, what of the telephone
itself? intimate instrument, closer when
one tells secrets than anyone,
so discreet, acceptable, non-interfering,
one trusts it with one's voice and breathless hearing,
"cradled," as they say,
or at one's lips a dozen times a day.
one is alone with it when one confides
what one most longs to hide.
dusting it, one finds it is all
people, squat, rhythmical.
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