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Tony Towle

(1939 / New York City / United States)

Snow


Dawn turns up black and important
before the sun shows it's only dawn
blackness and all.
The picture is different,
going across the room as the bed,
occupied for hours is the shadow,
or the shadow is dust
following the sun across the room;
talking on the bed
as the physician pronounced his words,
making the room a nightmare.

When I wake up I'll be reading.
The first line, a climax
summing up the past, a trap in the paper,
is crossed out. The smoke curls around her waist;
green and white, it is straightforward and
understandable, literally storming
the castle of our subconscious.

How do I think about endings -
four cups of coffee and
falling into an abrupt dream;
the temperature is falling,
the hand is a motor,
the effect of light on shapes.

Submitted: Friday, August 08, 2014

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