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by Elizabeth Archers

Hit every stoplight from my house to yours
late night when nothing comes easy,
just getting to you a Zen practice
in the postures of endurance,
my feet on the clutch and the brake.
Hope is a brief silhouette
against a crumbling brick wall.
In a corner of my eye
a tired fairy waits
shimmering by herself
mascara-shadowed, grief-hollowed,
fragile wings ripped and frayed.
When the light changes she is obscured
or gone altogether.
Under the rush and clatter of traffic
there is a murmur of wind tearing fabric
like the gradual unraveling of prayer flags.


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