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The drugged hoods
you dance with
as gravity relaxes
never asked my permission.
They sway the ballroom
so you know
only the low
moan of the sea,
and flap
their dusty wings
and scratch their
viol strings each time
I raise my voice
to keep you
from going faster
into slow motion.
Water fills
your ears. Over
the pure music
the nurse fights
with a machine
that breathes for you,
I call you home from the woods
for dinner and a bath,
while the sick angels
rejoice when a child
cannot hear
a fathers plea.
Michael Graber

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