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Buried

Our sandbox
growing up had holes
in the bed of it
Pale as an hourglass
penumbra of a half-brick
half-aluminum two-story house
Rusted down
sifting rapture through our fist
crying out clouds
of our inheritance
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: childhood
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COMMENTS
Dave Walker 16 March 2015
A great poem, our sand box growing up was a hole with builders sand put in it.
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