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No. 7

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Kathrine Varnes  
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From THE 24 DIVISADERO
 

I slide in, nudging a man as the bus lurches,
pull my bag up on my lap and hear
him singing ó singing with a woman ó clear
and quiet harmony without the churchís
echo: Rock a My Soul. And from our perches,
we neighboring birds who listen, we revere
the clustering of tone on tone. The mirror
of the driver winks back as he searches:

I catch his eye, ashamed itís not my song
but I donít know the words, couldnít hum along
even if I had the nerve, which I havenít got.
A hush, quiet as an empty church parking lot.
Good way to start the day, she says at last.
Amen, he says, and nods, Amen to that.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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