Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Hard Labor

At this late date, I am a peasant
Without land, no history but in the family
Who committed my sins for me
Engaged in recording that which the act
    distances me from
And discerning shapes amidst shadows
In the leafless, lifeless forest
With the sun going down

I once knew of a man who said:
"I'll tell you this much ---
When you tell somebody your dreams
    and hopes
You better make sure they love you
    like a brother
Or your dreams and hopes probably
    won't come true."
I wonder what, he would say
Is the penalty for telling the dream of another?
I flatter myself

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