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| Jan/Feb 2009 • Poetry |
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| Jan/Feb 2009 • Poetry |
***
one night, looking
out of the window
you cried: the moon!frightened as if
you saw it for
the last time ever
In The Queen's Honor
A friend of mine loathes the hills in the forest.
When he sees one, he always stops and prods it
With a stick. Then he gets a new haircut and quickly
Moves to another apartment. But he can't help
Hearing them come closer. Marching up the stairs.
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