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there is something so familiar in what is said

I stop and listen,

a traveller’s monologue of dark moaning trees,

chopped waters,

deserted street corners,

randomly disturbed light,

raised curtains,

doors flung open,

sudden precipitous avenues,

far away dogs brought near

it is insistent

secures my inner ear

we pick up the old conversation

neither of us understands

from The Dark Months of MayFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2004 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Poems Tom Pickard

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