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You Can Fly Too Close To God.


   My mailman sees my letters,
   who doesn't love me, how much.
   The banker sees what I have
   to lose. My doctor lays me down:
   I breathe all the way in, all the way
   out, past danger, past the shadow
   where I'm unsure. You can fly too close
   to God. People take off their shoes.
   They fall asleep in the clouds.
   The cable woman hugs the TV, kills
   the sound. The man who unloads
   oranges is unmoved by their perfection.
   People turn my water off and on.
   My teeth ache. Garbagemen, gravediggers,
   people in masks. Those who check a room
   for poisonous fumes, manufacture
   drains--there are secrets to defend!
   One full day of rain: my shirt soaked through,
   fingertips blue, I don't trust the weatherman,
   I don't trust the weather. A passing stranger
   slides an umbrella into my hand.
   Warm and wet from use, the red umbrella
   blooms--over me, under a thick white strip
   of reliable sky, and over the ants
   significant for their strength.
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Author:Kramer, Ashley Seitz
Publication:Colorado Review: A Journal of Contemporary Literature
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2013
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