something to go on that will take me out of myself. There’s a Van Morrison song playing in my head, crooning, telling me where the Buddha is, I know it, where the spicy smell of apples sits next to the strawberry-rhubarb pie. The sweet & sour smells mingle with the music, and the oxidized Buddha waits for my prayer, but I have none, nothing to pray for, only that I could possibly be sent back in time where I decided not to go, but came here instead, with the Buddha, the barnyard, the apple tree rotting, the music & the sorrow sinking down into my feet.
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Anne Gr aue
SIXFOLD POETRY SUMMER 2013