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Direction

A poem.

August 4, 2011



West is the river
flowing like stop-
light-less traffic
and it murmurs a gentle
riddle to you
standing alone on its profitless bank:
Tomorrow is a
slender boat
sailing beyond your
purposeless grasp.

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Just then a casual breeze touches
your sunlit face
and all that you want to believe in
holds sudden truth. Susan Scutti

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