Category: Poetry
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The oranges have gone a bit soft, the apples are delicately
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low hum door slam clickclack nothing.
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standing there – patiently – as if amused that the fire could spread this way or that
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When you wake there are harsh syllables to grab at you, yell, threaten!
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it calmed me to have the bridge of my nose stroked gently with the pad of her index finger
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julienning my hands, trying to pickle nineteen-years-old among white malt and “what’s your major again?”
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What if her tribe erupts into legions that gorge upon my meager silk and cotton garden?
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suspended on a spider’s web
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we were to write a code-word, something easy to remember
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save yourself, move to the margins, just leave the screen
