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Wednesday, June 25, 2008


“10-4,” he says. “All clear,” he clarifies.
The mystery of codes has captured me.
The radio keeps buzzing like a bee
and sends out messages that dance and fly,
a dream so commonplace yet free,
dismembered voices sharing secret things,
encoded, cryptic in great secrecy,
in magic code, decoded only by
the bus chauffeur. He separates the maze
of numbers, dashes, strange and mystical.
I’m curious. I bend beyond my seat.
I wonder what he’s saying, what are his ways.
Then everything seems less phenomenal
when noticing his orange answer sheet.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!