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Poetry

Bounding Sphere

Bill Carty

Better luck next year, we said, gathering
materials. Better luck next year, we whispered
under tiles, eaves, under thatch-edge
and waterpipe, better luck sprouting
where the gutter drips. Plum-purple, we were,
lucking into new years. Better luck
we said to center-cloud, better luck
to cloud-edge. What could be better, we said,
as a shadow met us on the sea beach.
Better luck, I said. Next year, you said,
and didn’t elaborate. Better, better, better,
we said. We said, luck, luck, luck,
with zero perspective. Lucky clods, we said,
having misspoke, looking skyward.

 

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