Category: Writing
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Warmest French Bread
I am the River Moldau collecting beneath crossed ankles. I am the sideways push to get out from your path. I am you, stained grey-air ash. I am warmest French bread and condensation on the plate. Me and the droplets waiting for spreadable Everything’s Better Butter.
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Proof by the Faults
In bed without solace of restEach sand of the day falling In poring over the text of ages. Like bed-light under comforterMany moons ago. Still a similar warmth of spiritAnd text of ages in hand: A letter. From father to long lost loveNot mother. Proof of an everlasting trial. Secrecy by the fault linesWhich brought forth deathIn the form of children. A…