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Pool at Dusk

Perhaps, salvation itself is
this twilight of consciousness
in childhood - swimming in a pool
of dreams murky as a sewer
but reading to each other
from one and the same book

Weren't you bored? -
the odor of wild strawberries
emanating from the illustrations
forcing you above the page

to bend and intervene
the third voice in a dialogue
of saint and bird, the first time
you actually heard yourself

What am I? throaty spasms,
a hoarse voice? - impossible
to rise above the inarticulate
in their conversation
I'm but a cough from beyond
the neighbor's television set
peals of thundering
furniture above my head

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