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by Darryl Price


" You were so beautiful as a song. You are so ugly as a god."--Leonard Cohen

"Sorry we hurt your field, Mister."--The Beatles

to my heart. I'm sorry. I must have left it 
down the garden. Will this do? Listening to the little 
soft bluebells trying so hard to be people. They've seen 
what it means to be encircled by great chanting mountains. 
Listen to the guardian angels wrestling on the floor in
 
your room: Fly away! It's the same thing they told 
you so long ago, but at least it's still true. 
Listen to the grace burbling from your own footsteps. Listen 
to the lonesome trees. Listen to the sky, if you 
dare. Listen to the opening door of a new life's 

possibility. Listen, until finally everyone gets the loneliest joke. Then 
kindly tell it back to me. Is it funny or 
not? Let's return to the heart. I guess we were 
made for one another. Lay down your gun. I'll lay 
down mine. Listen, you put that poor moon in a 

blender. What did you think would happen? It's still going 
on. Around. You were so beautiful. I was so broken. 
If you really want to go that far. Listen, love 
has bitten its own tongue. I suppose that's what these 
crazy, mocking words are trying to show us. Something's passing.

I can feel it, scattering among the roots. Violins underneath 
the moss. Where have all the green guitarists gone? Behind 
cracked wooden crates, jumbled in the secret alleys like bones 
and teeth. This should have been called a fool of 
himself. Instead, it's just another big idea in some woods.
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