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A VERY OLD SUBJECT

I lose the keys in all my dreams.
Suffering burns the fire clean.
The number seven.  A cup of whey.
Hot oven baking heart-shaped squash.
The numbers three and seventy-seven.
My mother won't ever help me look.
Enchanted grooms, animal brides.
Also, the seventh son of a
seventh son.  Call a spade a spade.
Kill two birds with one stone.
Necklace of bones, knuckles probably.
I find the keys, only an hour too late.
Evensong and morning light.
All night, a weasel
raids the coop.  Who I peer
at makes stars rattle.
I wake, always, from the dream
with relief.  Pronouncedly,
the mole's stone-blind.
Posted 06/07/13
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