Recovery

December 14, 2011 § 2 Comments

Too windy for the moon to hold on to the night
and feels like this poem should start without an
“I”. Without the badly drawn one, the one drawn
to go high and low, in the quiet hours of the dawn.
The dictionary clown, the expatriated “we”,
in last night’s storm, the thinest tree.
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§ 2 Responses to Recovery

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