When you see through the lies

they fed as a child

like a sheet hung to dry,

golden sun shining through.

 

And you can remember you’re mother

how that was an end to itself

a buried place, where old dead bones.

beginning

wrong,

right

and 

love

What a strange mix,

to be all.

 

There’s a strange coolness to November

settles in the low places

where the ground went to sleep early,

My world isn’t safe yet.

 

Tonight you ask about Thanksgiving.

and no one knows momentary trips

as if hanging in the air cleanes all.

 

Here’s the sound of the trash drug

from the street to the rocks,

no one can sleep from this sound,

when it’s time to draw them all out.

 

Dave Barber

Thanksgiving

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