Category: Poetry
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I ask. My words, dripping with fleeting hope, like honey from a baby’s chin.
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for leave of soft ignorance, and inescapable rhythm
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We noticed how most of the plots looked like poodles, overheard gardeners compare the superiority of sunlight in the plot versus their yards at home.
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Gaps between sounds deadened and dressed like a deer one day from rot.
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My people be water people so long they grew gills
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vaseline more high-top fade more pomade pressed
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It is the aperture that we cling to, an exit that implies a return.
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i will peel the orange for you and in the moment you hold the piece in your mouth
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i wish to be burnt alive by what i love.
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My mother still beads adhans into a rosary at the minaret
