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How to Say "Good Night, Helen" (Poem)
Plastic toggles cut in the worn-thin skin of a finger with a pull of a white switch
The sights itch as light pierces the pupil
Futile casts the startling realization into a mirror
It couldn’t get much clearer
And concise
Three nights have been interred in memory
Do thoughts have trajectory? Is there a directory?
Sensory reveals oaths left daunting
Ghosts, ( Read more... )