Articles/Essays – Volume 56, No. 3
Down the street
trusties from the state hospital
following the horizon of their noon shadows,
their feet scooping up the sidewalk,
the fastest as slow as the slowest.
The sun is on them and pitiless.
If we, shaded neighbors
on the other side of fences,
notice, we frown
and hope they are making their way
back down their crazy tangents
to the clear still waters of truth.
these hunched dancers with the sun on them
are crawling up the world’s left thumb,
whose peak is farther from heaven
than they would hope
if they could think of hope.
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