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Quiet, quiet Slow to seep Weeping oil Go to sleep Early morning Is waking up a Slice of orange and Scrambled eggs Words are tokens Nests of mouth Crèche of tongues You can't see A hummingbird's Moving wings, A spirit across the Table perfectly laid Drinks the flowers Ripples shade; Your eyes a napkin Sop it up, Azure outfits Light in a cup.
Bret R. Crabrooke
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Monday, July 20, 2009 |
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