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Feathered over, predilection forgets which the bond, which the question reality.

As a hand moves around a cone and plane,

Spray rises and falls on all sides.

The guide attends the wheel,

And sick from it, the engine starts.

He has a glass eye and we,

Confused, hear him tell us our confusion.

"Because," he wonders, "where we're from."

A dinner of burnt fried flesh, ringing

Until another joke from behind a fire

Mentions someone's home town:

Tulsa, Oklahoma, California.

And now we are dying

Of laughter, only just because

It lingers on your breast

After the lungs, taught with apprehension

Of youth, collapse. Hands twist left over

And the wheel in tow

Guides the boat, amending six teal

And uncountable parallel lines of rope.

Antonio Facchino lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. He conducts poetry workshops with California Poets in the Schools and works as a Director of Photography for Think Tank Video. Other poems of his have appeared in Santa Clara Review.
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Author:Facchino, Antonio
Publication:Chicago Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Dec 22, 2001
Words:154
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