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Sometimes
I feel I’m held together
with old rubber bands
a little string
and bits of dry-rotted cloth
gripping the tail of a
forgotten half-filled helium
party balloon
tied loosely
to a dilapitated
white picket fence
the worn whitewash
rubbing off easily
leaving powdery white smears
on one’s hands
impossible to wipe off
without marking something else
Nothing solid
to tether myself to
nothing tangible
nothing sure
only faith
with a hole in the middle
juggled and tossed
by a capricious wind
(9.7.2011)
