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Poem: “Present Tense”


He plots movement,

holds forces,

makes strategy,

wants high ground

when the time comes.



You make a date.  You

place an order.  You

sit.  You wait for the

heavens to open, the

bricks to crack.  You

climb. You avoid the

rabid dog.  You take

your pulse.  You open

your eyes underwater.

You find a coin in the

dirt by the tree.  You

cut your hand on the

edge of the box.  You

sleep late.  You look

for something to do.



My bones fill with smoke.

It is night along the edge.

There is no way to know.


Patrick T. Reardon



Written 8.11.81


Originally published in Proof Rock, Winter 1985-86

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