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S.O.S

by James Walton (follow)
We send you our finest
though our words come
in hundreds of languages
there is only one instrument
used by all our peoples,

we are killing ourselves
over the different edges
of colloquial dissent
and versions of higher idioms
from the same mouths,

translate for us of how
flower buds and babies
reach for milk in the same way
as tongues await the deft drumming
of a sunís agency of new days,

come from beyond your stellar dialect
remind us that a kiss
is the most intimate grace of sex
that all tears taste of salt
and there is hope for us yet.

Sky Writing Fitzroy North 2005, photo courtesy of Joseph Walton
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