Face Poem by Tim Carlson
Face
I feel about this small,
a thimbel shaped growth,
unshaped and common.
Who are they? not me,
not her, not him, no sense,
of identity nor of sense.
swelled.
Cold like a snake,
barb poised.
What am I? Dispute it,
You know better.
Injured and fat, lie like
a great serpent.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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4/16/2024 12:51:17 PM # 1.0.0.1119
