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Polling Report

To be human is to be the meat—
rare & vicious in each meniscus.

The eyelid floats a blink’s runoff, bats at
one yipping dog tethered to a weathered tree.

No matter how sweetly they play, an animal
wonders at its master like a stranger. Friends,

there is much to consider. The sun
doesn’t burn the wind & why would it?

Water won’t wash any old thing clean.
Politicians bind, will be bound & heckle

crowds as words tear peopled frames.
They’ll be our natives. With all we can stand,

we’ll sing & be counted— floorboard planks
in a November afternoon’s porch of flies.
Posted 10/23/12
Books by Sally Delehant
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