172
VIEWS
Because I awaken
from the drowsiness of a midday dream,
there stands Magritte,
the assassin’s shadow.
In the lashing rain you stand motionless; leaves of words fluttering, fluttering, ginkgo leaves scatter in disarray.
Magritte—
deep within his eyes,
in the blue sky,
a single streak of cloud;
the west glows crimson.
(At the National Cancer Center, Ward 8B)
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