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by Thomas Johnson

Behind the broom-scrape of fir

You’re gone. Just like that.

If I were to close
These scissors

In the empty air
Over my head

Every silkworm in the Orient
Would drop,
Severed from its thread

Onto that
Smouldering pyre
Your anger
Has piled from my bones.


Thomas Johnson has a chapbook, Footholds (Ironwood Press), and a full-length book, Homing Signals (Stone-Marrow Press). (Spring 1975)

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