Wednesday, May 14, 2008


He wonders what

a crumpled piece of paper

in a wastebasket

does all night.

Does it simply sit there

as the stars shed their inspiration

across the earth? Does it feel

the unfurling of the night

as the hours pass? Does it sense

that astonishing things are occurring

in countless places, that rivers

are rambling in lighthearted ways,

that streets are sleeping

after long hours with tires?

Does the crumpled paper

pretend to be someone’s

crumpled heart,

someone sitting in silence

as the stars pass

in procession overhead?

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