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March 2006 An oldish poem that I don't really like anymore but will post nonetheless. Series of serrated impressions from thinking about time and setting, if I remember correctly. |
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eighty-nine dried roses wood and water, peers the deer through March's rain, it's back again mud and fog and footprints here. millions of dead maple leaves streams and stones, passes grass collapsed I lie, 'neath blue sky below the rot the new ones gasp- sixteen years of being beginning breathing, lying eye flowers are tied to the door smoke in a bottle: 's'truth, no lies. |