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HEY MR.To Lisa Marie Zaran's previous piece     FairingTo Lisa Marie Zaran's next piece

All That Matters

i must speak to him
in tongues.  some riddled
language he can not understand.
his own voice, a mute desert.
his throat, a narrow dirt road.

my words must come like
an odd pounding of rain,
a freak of nature, an opaque
film of wet too rare to comment
upon, a dust devil creating
monsoon thunderstorm.

perhaps they're just a little something
to get his sagebrush eyes rolling
or his 65 year old sahauroed pattern
of thinking to sprout an arm.

afraid of what possible damage
i might inflict, he responds, finally,
with a crack deep inside his canyon wall.

there i plant a wildflower.

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