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This Time Round
Are there ghosts in the puppets?
Here where the spirits have their own addresses,
they drink orange Fanta
and sit on their verandahs
discussing what their past life was like,
and if this one is any better.
I pray for you every day,
not in words but in cups of tea,
lucky charms, magazine horoscopes,
night skies I've never learnt to read.
When it comes to love or music I am illiterate.
You take me dancing
where the DJ plays the drums.
Rhythm is not chance,
the echo of gypsy blood set alight in a storm,
beads on a string
stretching from cradle to grave.
We run through the torrents of history
doing our best not to get wet.
We can't know whose pulling our strings.
So many dominos had to fall
for this kiss to happen,
a candle held up to scratched glass.
I thought I recognized you,
even now I'm haunted by your eyes,
the shuffling of a deck of cards.
I turn over the queen of hearts,
she's laughing at us.
The fortune teller spoke of car crashes,
the year of true love,
radio waves crashing on a beach,
the pull of the moon.
You don't have to believe me
but you are my only superstition.
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