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Out of seemingly nowhere

it comes

a dust devil racing across the desert

swirling up an image

from a week, a month—

ten, twenty, thirty years ago.


It’s suddenly alive, a fighting bull breathing fire:

the thing your mate or child or mother said or did

or didn’t say or do

that knocked you to the floor

and stomped on your heart.


It’s true, real, vivid as an HD movie

with a bombastic soundtrack—

a heart surgeon’s knife

poised to cut deep.


And it does cut, only with yet more pain

because the incision point is already an old, old scar,

or many scars, ones you don’t even remember,

maybe even from another life!


This time, however, you’re armed.

You remember that all is the Beloved.


That ancient or recent word or deed

churning within the mind

was not from the husband, wife, sister or child.

It was a love poem from the Friend to call you back

to remind you that you are not that mate, daughter, writer or neighbor

but are instead

a whirling universe




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