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Dennis Clark

The Old Singer in the Room

Entering the room, for the first time



His chest tautens, his fingers peel

back the skin, his pupils rake through the

bars of his cage, into the space where a

heart should be, finding just two spools

of thread, each, a color unalike.


The spools, turning slowly, release their

strands, as franticly, with thickened fingers,

he tries to wind them back, only to be left

a witness, thin, and unraveling.


The naked spools, as wood-lathed replicants,

are revealed in the bent reflection of another,

as one is unburdened, the other, left barren,

knows of sadness, the other, reborn. 

At the Singer, covered in a measure of time

passed dust, where once, her hands would

gently mend, he sits, and gathers-up the

strands of thread, each, a color unalike,

then sets in train, to stitch his torn fabric. 

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