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day 32, poem 25


then the music box cylinder begins to wind down,
the comb drags
slowly more 
slowly
across the pins; and you remember
the horns and drums of the marching band
fading into the distance,
and you're sitting on your father's shoulders,
and the last giant balloon has floated past,
and the crowd begins to disperse for another year.

05/07/05

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