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The Flurry

When we talk about when to tell the kids,
we are so together, so concentrated.
I mutter, 'I feel like a killer.' 'I'm
the killer'—taking my wrist-he says,
holding it. He is sitting on the couch,
the worn indigo chintz around him,
rich as a night tide, with jellies,
I am sitting on the floor. I look up at him
as if within some chamber of matedness
some dust I carry around me. Tonight,

to breathe its Magellanic field is less
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Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: divorce
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM

The richest work I've read today..... Compulsively readable. Thanks for sharing.

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