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The one to one arena

By Franklin Straus / February 1, 1982

These things We do not say Shall we trust ourselves to say them Will they hurt Will they heal Acrobats doing flipflops And somersaults To atonal music Chords and dischords Thoughts tumbling Through our strainings To reach and touch with Maybe new words Without edges, healing words Leaving no scars, no shreddings Of the already tender fibers Fibers like the high wires We tread cautiously One foot placed gingerly before the other The nets have been removed We breathe deeply And take the next step Trusting

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