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Friday, April 9, 2010

In which...

The sun does shine
on this withered, shrunken hand
along with a breeze
a contradiction
a pale blue sky and scents as fresh
as the rain we wait to fall
from or veins, our hearts
a malediction
a pale blue song from birds
as benign as words
malign from you
The sun does shine
on this pretty, scarring hand