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Daedalus's Daughter

W.C. Roberts

Poetry
Science Fiction

She's millions of miles away
now, her wings stretched wide
embracing the galaxy

my gypsy orb, my earth
in microcosm.  I feathered
our nest, but all my warbling
cannot bring her
back.  What is this
evolution that divorces
white from yolk?  Circles
concentric, ranged beyond the space
now come between us

like their Dyson shell, I turn
inward, wanting, waiting my inevitable
burn-up by the sun that
she outgrew and left behind.  


                                                   



 

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Copyright 2009, W.C. Roberts. All rights reserved.

W.C. Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump.  The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in his own discarded clothes.  W.C. dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens.  Above all, he writes.


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