Margaret Hitch

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Another bruise on my knee I don't know where from.
I don’t give it much heed, this body of mine.
And if I could I’d send it out with the dry cleaning
for another body
with different attractions:
A pile of cloth with some thorns in it,
red and gold -

I want to shift out of this face,
the way the other day
she smeared red mud
over her eyes and it was fully mahogany.
It was fully something good to eat.

Then it is morning
and the hummingbird comes calling at the window -
the moss comes up through the cracks,
the flowers drop and rot beneath the trees.
This house thunders into the rain and
raccoons rummage in our garden at night.

She did a handstand the other day,
And the next, a piano appeared in the window.
Then, dried flowers on the mantle -
Collections of ourselves ranging over
every surface.


A song came flooding into my head last night,
A real toe tapper, and I danced up the street
in the dark with you on my mind.

Houses are falling over gracefully in my dreams.
And filled with desire,
a-feared of old age,
I can feel the ground
shifting beneath my feet once again.
Snow fell the other day outside at the park
and I caught it on my tongue.

How could I ever repay this?
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