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Geronimo’s hair
Oranges
Poetry Poem
Bronzeville by Night (1949)
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Patients
Through out this ward windowed night,
she thinks trees are scoop nets, against the sky.
She, as a full moon, migrates left to right.
Trees, in queue, try to trap her going by
catch her midway in ghosted gill nets
like snow covered radials a spider sets.
She hides in labored breathing of a cloud.
The moon escapes the last weir into dawn.
She remains in lock down.
What foolish self-centered prisoner proud,
a handless fisherman of the universe, bound
to a water-boarded hospital bed, in lock cell room,
ponders success to capture an interrogating moon.
She knows full well all laws of standing still and orbit.
There are no secrets left, she answers, "yes, that is it."
She, ordered, will count backward from 100 by two.
Liftoff Thorazine orange drips leaking into her view.
Even an unseen moon will sleep.
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