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Dancing The Real

photo by David Croker

 

You danced once, there, in those rocks.

It meant something. It all did—you,

your love, the beautiful stones. You

danced there, happy. It meant something.

 

Those things, they were as real as

the cotton in the threads of your scarf.

 

You danced there again, there, in those

rocks. Many things meant something—

your love was there. You danced, looking

to the horizon for meaning.

 

Those things, they were as real as

the thread in what you had lived for.

 

Still you dance, in those rocks,

there, wet in the rising tide. Your

love. Your happiness. The stones

cry out. Yet where is the strength

 

to turn? Even a bow is too much.

 

Those things. They were as real as,

as real as . . . Those things were real.

 



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