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Herring Run |
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They come in a tin can, neatly packed side-by-side. |
To open the can, you need to pry the key from the underside, |
fit the metal tab into the slot and roll it up. |
How quietly they sleep inside that cozy can, |
waiting for spring to stir them back to life |
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The electric door grinds along its track as I enter the trap. |
Shoes off, pockets inside-out, hand stamped, book signed, |
Arms to my sides, I rotate in all directions-east, south, west and north- |
passing silently through the archway to the other side. |
Smudged by the magic wand, I pass through another sliding door, |
then a swinging door into the yard. |
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Crossing the yard into the building where we meet, |
I wonder whether we will find the key to roll back the tin. |
Will they surf the tide, scurry up the stream and through the locks? |
Will their leaps and pirouettes carry them around the rocks to |
the spawning ground? |
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The scent of spring is full in our lungs today. |
We thrash, dive and leap through the currents to the sea. |
At the center, bubbles rise from a deep source |
and a secret spring carries us beyond wire and walls. |
Boys frolic in the surf, combing the beach |
for bits of concrete, glass and metal washed up on the shore. |
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But now it is time. |
The men line up neatly, side-by-side. |
To close the can you need to find the key, |
fit the metal into the tab and roll it down. |
How quietly they sleep inside that cozy can, |
waiting for spring to stir them back to life. |
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-Steve Spitzer |
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Prison II |
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Dead latch hums, disengages,
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Steel door growls against its
track. |
Pass. |
Drives shut, pawl clicks in. |
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Badges, heavy belt, radio, |
Pendulous
keys, chain, clipboard, |
Crew cut, scrubbed skin, |
Watchful eyes, straight back, taut arms. |
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Footfalls echo, spotless vinyl, |
Bright lit glare, |
Blank walls, hard edges, |
Bars, gate, thick glass. |
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Scrub grass, |
High fence, straight lines, |
Concrete, steel, |
Gray light, cold wind. |
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High cameras, |
Huddled men, hushed voices, |
Uniforms, empty hands, |
Silence. |
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Standing, waiting, bare halls, |
Locked in, locked out. |
“ Attention on the compound…” |
Rules,
numbers, repetition. |
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Black fear, stoop shouldered |
Red anger, black veiled |
White reality, open faced |
Orange-bright courage, golden
hope. |
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Gift for my soul, this |
Wheeled gate rolls open |
Invites me to its |
Container. |
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-Vern
Ludwig |
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