Sketch - Poem by Jon Corelis
California spring at the end of the twentieth century:
the sun is chill and warm like Chardonnay;
from the news box windows in front of the Whole Foods Market
headlines recount why people are blown to bits.
A grey gaunt man scrapes a coin return with a finger,
evincing no dismay at finding nothing.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye