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Bob Donachie
The Wanderer
for Rob
You are never gone long,
In the morning they’ll
Look and speculate
On which direction you
Have fallen, the ways
Your feet take you
When the moon is ripe.
It could be you were
Entranced by the lack
Of promise in days,
The immutable principle
Of death by purpose,
And they may yet be
Calling you; But you
Continue as before,
Even the bones of
Your feet uncertain,
Hearing, yes, but
Not words, or emotion—
Rather the instances
In which these sounds
Are grounds for departure.
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