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Our Nada Who Art In Nada, Nada Be Thy Name
poems, sometimes
December 25, 2008
Frying Eggs on Christmas Morning
Still dull blue outside,
a dawn drowned in
deafening street light,
blinding cricket-buzz.
Mornings I know
the kinetics of being
torn apart: stiff white,
bleeding yolk.
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Erin
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