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I am wearing dark glasses inside the house

To match my dark mood.


I have left all the sugar out of the pie.

My rage is a kind of domestic rage.


I learned it from my mother

Who learned it from her mother before her


And so on.

Surely the Greeks had a word for this.


Now surely the Germans do.

The more words a person knows


To describe her private sufferings

The more distantly she can perceive them.


I repeat the names of all the cities I’ve known

And watch an ant drag its crooked shadow home.


What does it mean to love the life we’ve been given?

To act well the part that’s been cast for us?


Wind. Light. Fire. Time.

A train whistles through the far hills.


One day I plan to be riding it.

from The IrrationalistFind more by Suzanne Buffam at the library

Copyright © 2010 Suzanne Buffam
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Published in Poems Suzanne Buffam

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