Sunday

Sunday

A weekly poem, read by the author.
March 18 1999 3:30 AM

Sunday

(Continued from Page 3)

ham slice brushed subterranean green.

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They were eating his misery

like bad medicine meant to help them

grow. They would have done anything

not to see his hand jerk like that,

his belt hissing through the loops and

around that fist working inside the coils

like an animal gnawing, an animal

who knows freedom's worth anything

you need to leave behind to get to it--

even your own flesh and blood.

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