Are there days when you wonder
if you are almost empty, if
the pitcher can hold any more,
if the sky is done dumping
its load of bad news, if
the laundry will ever dry?
Are there fences of wire
and beds cut from tinfoil,
are there feet that have walked
for days and days in the desert?
Sometimes it is hard to tell
if the wound is closed
or if it has opened again,
if the line nicked with barbs
is trimmed with salt or snow.

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