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A certain man had a leg removed.
That same man’s in a coma now

in a hospital room with a single feather,
lying unnoticed in its darkest corner.

He a crocus, yellow and asleep:
an albino rabbit, dozing in old snow.

Was this man hurt in the war?
Will he awaken to let praises roll

from a bloated tongue,
or die—straight from that coma—

now that the air has absorbed
a vapid symbolism?

first published in Left Facing Bird

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