The Shadow Voice by Margaret Atwood
My shadow said to me: what is the matter
Isn't the moon warm enough for you why do you need the blanket of another body
Whose kiss is moss
Around the picnic tables The bright pink hands held sandwiches crumbled by distance. Flies crawl over the sweet instant
You know what is in these blankets
The trees outside are bending with children shooting guns. Leave them alone. They are playing games of their own.
I give water, I give clean crusts
Aren't there enough words flowing in your veins to keep you going.
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