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My Calendar

The leaves of yesterday I pluck away

Too gladly, my fingers thinking on accord

With its master’s caprice:

A broken toy, pride, friendship

Today —

All mutable, volatile and frail.

What ecstatic liberation the process thrills!

What control, what sublimation those papers

Suffer from the delirious push button ripping

These automaton hands executing my command


But mere defense mechanism, it is

But treachery.  Like paper that I subdue

To bring December,

The sands are not induced

To bring me January.


Copyright 2008

Ruth Mostrales


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