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Counting to a Hundred Under Water

What say in a moment

of blind darkness

comes a flash of light


You become aware

the lightness of things

fragile transparent ghosts

everything—buildings like spider webs

highways—cracks in parched soil

the hum of tractors—cicadas

bibles, maps—piles of dried leaves


You can’t remember your name

or why you should have one

instructions fade inside your eyelids

hieroglyphics of veined leaves

shattered glass crenellations


And all the words that were never written

the things left unsaid

all the important issues of days

shaking, disappearing like snowflakes on ice

until everything freezes into

a single light gray solid


The outlines of a face

sleeping an imagined sleep

peaceful, motionless


Waiting for a kiss from a princess

who will perhaps bend down gently

from clouds that drift and drift

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© Johnmichael Simon



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