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Transmigration.

Don Hogle

I may have begun to separate

already. At times, an old man

precedes me

down the stairs,

knees weak, careful

with his steps.

The other day, I was headed east

on West 16th Street, when a giant

pounding surrounded me, then a great

whoosh, and the boys from Xavier High School

were already beyond me, running

toward whatever awaited them, 

their boisterous calls chasing 

finches up into the branches,

beneath which I watched myself,

trudging along, 

two bulging

grocery bages

in my hands. 

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