In this stone plaza a fountain runs cold – the way
a bronze woman drops her head in that old, blue way.

Rain soaks the news, ink runs bright in the gutter.
I didn’t know paper victims could fold that way.

You mustn’t hush your voice, sugarcoat your meaning;
but be a wolf in wolf’s clothing – be bold, his way.

The flooding rivers dragged boats still clinging to their moorings.
Still he built a glass gondola and poled my way.

The weight of change sagged like rocks deep in my pockets.
Yet I slogged down the shore with my anchor held aweigh.

Spent too much time mining fossils from shale and sand,
looking deep into rock for precious gold to weigh.

Lost on dirty stairs winding down to black water,
a bead of sweat in my open mouth told the way.

After ten years of lying down on market shelves,
it feels natural to be bought and sold this way.

Would you jump from a plane, girl, without having prayed?
Nine out of ten sinners answered when polled: no way.

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