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Poetry

We weren’t “marching through the streets,”

We weren’t “marching through the streets,” but
ducking
from doorway
to doorway

as if the pounding rain
were gunfire,
snipers’ nests. And a brown package (plastic

explosives) labeled “STAY THE FUCK BACK 500 FEET!”

And yet,
a smile, wave – quick glances

at your feet

and you move your hands
in that old dance, writing
AutonomousDesire

in black paint on asphalt gleaming with puddles of the streetlamps’ glow.

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  1. Pingback: We weren’t “marching through the streets,” « autonomousdesire - February 17, 2010

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