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                    As I get farther from the source I sense myself

returning to an ocean, itself a source

                    as though I moved away from one and towards another

mother, both of a common element like water.

                    My father is the sun, I rest beneath the shade

of a plane tree, sharpening a bone into a crescent

                    I'll use before night falls to kill a shadow

to sustain me under his intolerable noons.

                     Tomorrow was the day I was to be

where every son longs secretly, horizon.

                    He'll rise before me as he's always done,

lay out my shoes. It always was tomorrow.

Selected by MK for PoNE | from Number 1, June 2012 >> Table of Contents