FALL/ WINTER 2014

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Linda Benninghoff

THE WEAVE OF THE WORLD

My fingers feel
the edges of things,
as if they might be whole:
the lamp whose
light is resurrected each evening,
the TV set that destroys
the peace of the house
in the woods.
My hands feel
the weave of the world,
and the places
it's becoming something,
like the weave
in my mother's white hair,
frazzled, as
she feeds my father,
prostrate with the flu.
My hands feel
the edges of this,
and the world as
its colors shine through.                              

 


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