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End Times
I begin a poem by not writing half of it.
Sow, don't yell.
Sometimes the rain walks funny.
Black is white,
the personal is political,
and up is down.
Sometimes the wind cries in its sleep.
The neurotic is erotic,
good is bad,
and the sexual is spiritual.
Sometimes the rocks scream by the side of the road.
My heart aches,
the killer whales are singing,
and I make you into a constellation I can steer my ship by.

This poem appears in the 2006 Anthology
View all poems by Chris Toll