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The Shadow Voice

 My shadow said to me: 
what is the matter

Isn't the moon warm
enough for you
why do you need
the blanket of another body

Whose kiss is moss

Around the picnic tables
The bright pink hands held sandwiches
crumbled by distance.
Flies crawl over the sweet instant You know what is in these blankets The trees outside are bending with children shooting guns.
Leave them alone.
They are playing games of their own.
I give water, I give clean crusts Aren't there enough words flowing in your veins to keep you going.

by Margaret Atwood
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