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an ongoing thread of my poetry
art, speaking
antique
submergence
the only picture I can paint is a canvas half empty
FLOWER BEDS
november, the taker
if I knew the answer I wouldn’t have written this poem
the end of all that is beautiful
allurement
resonance
YOU CAN’T TALK DOWN ON SOMEONE BY YELLING AT THE SKY
winded
a glow through the glass
telling signs from both sides of the table
