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Contributor: William C. Blome

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Like on a trampoline we bounced with flair
Inside a tiny sector of late June
Where babies like bubbles also rose
To break then vanish in chartreuse air.

Ask starlings (birds without a tune)
If you don't believe my cryptic talk
About what we did and what we saw
Twixt noon and midnight, sun and moon.

I passed your head and then your toes
As infants ascended on either side,
Ferns and chicory brushed our skin,
And I tell you for sure the blackbird knows

Each detail about our jumps from reason
With people who practically had no age.
But unlike the starling you'll need a song
To leave and return in another season.

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William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.


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