FJ Bergmann

Madison

All afternoon they tugged their weary shadows

up and down the sun-kissed streets,

leaving an imaginary warp on the loom

only they could see. A compulsive urge

to repair the fabric of reality had led them

here, where so many feet and voices

had protested the damage. The dissonant

descant of an off-key saxophone

followed their restless footsteps back and forth

across cloudy gaps as they waited

for the pesky sun to return

and thread them with light.

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