September 11

The gray bird does not sit
on the tall dry tree,
the red fox is gone,
the bulimic night will soon
give way to the dawn.

Within the ebon eclipse of these hours
I shall fast for the green days,
and in the deep darkness of my soul
the candle will glimpse bright
and the mirror reflect back a world
where no one hates me
for the brown beauty of my life.

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