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    The wheels had all but touched down in Canberra
   when the control tower directed us back
   into the storm. You held your breath as
   the aircraft resumed its holding pattern.
   Jaipur was scalding. The textile bazaar came
   alive with the dying sun, flush with jewels
   and cretins, the tang of spice and sweat,
   bright saris flung and held the lengths of shops.
   December in Belgrade, a girl sat knitting
   behind a foggy cafe window. She stood
   to hold her progress to the light, wrapped
   her needles in it, packed her bag and went.
   In muggy Charleston, a banana spider
   spun a web between palmetto fronds. Silk strands
   glistened in the lamplight and trembled
   with flies long before the work was finished.
   Cape Town reached out to the Atlantic. Along
   the water, lovers traced lines in each other's
   palms then walked off holding hands in the
   shade of apartheid and Table Mountain.
   Two vultures wheeled over a ridge in Puno,
   descending in an ever tightening spiral
   on a point beneath them where they sensed
   a creature barely holding on to life.
   Goodbyes beget goodbyes. Yet for all the world
   we keep returning to its earthly matters.
   This pattern holds our lives together.
   This holding patterns love into our lives.
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Author:Westbrook, J.S.
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2019
Previous Article:BULL GATOR.

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