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Tuesday

2009 March 2
by Anne Heraghty
1113685_drop

The Crown of My Head Its Only Point of Contact

The sun is relentless-
trying to pry open
my clenched eyes to
the opportunites of the day, but
I hold fast

looking down, the crown of my head
its only point
of contact, determination
repelling its rays for
some unknown hero with
superhuman optimism
to absorb.

My will
lassos a far-away storm cloud,
tugging at it
like a leashed dog
who wants to linger
under a maple.
I pull it close to me,
its dark beauty my
gun-point companion,
though it has flowers to feed
rivers to fill.

I need it more-
the staticity of its pent-up drops
my mirror
as I savor the sour taste
I let sit, thickly, on
my dry tongue.

I know this cloud will not
hold its water forever, but if
I can stay here beneath it-
spoiled child with black balloon-
it could eventually
provide me a fine
wet blanket.

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