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Dave Bacharach
a hawk
glares down at me
from the phone line
gentle conversation
passes through its talons
driving away
from the hospital visit
I guess
it's not so bad
to die in battle
washing down
my vitamin pill
with whiskey-
I've come to accept
a self of opposites
I look off
when she pushes in
the I.V.
a girl catches butterflies
in a picture on the wall
I aim my gun
where the lines cross
from eyes to ears
God's design to put
horses out of pain
so many graves
up in the dog graveyard
I count them-
it's a good enough way
to calibrate my life
our names etched
inside a lovers' heart
on wet concrete-
still there
even after the fire
a rabbit's foot
left on my bed
by the cat
as if I needed
another paradox
Dave Bacharach grew up in the streets and alleys of Philadelphia, PA. He
worked his way through college doing manual labor and driving a taxi. After
attending graduate school, he taught briefly at Philadelphia Community
College before relocating to the rural hillsides surrounding Ithaca, NY. He
now manages a large bus garage by day, and writes poetry and practices the
saxophone by night. His poetry and reviews have appeared in many of the
major journals, and he is the editor of Ribbons, published by the Tanka
Society of America.
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