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Poem #27

Continuum of Care

Pen clicks mark time in a unit where no one gets to leave. This purgatory; sins never really purged, impossible. No sin for a sick mind can heal with glassed ice, crunch munch in their cheeks, squirrelling away water for another sunlight drought, trying to remember what it felt like to walk barefoot on glossy grass. I ask: How long have you been here? She says: Back when I had a tan.


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Poem #33

Striped I fell from a dock in the summer, split my hand open like a ripened fig, blood drip-dropping to ruddy the waves while I gulped down salty red, I swam to shore, hand raised above my head, looki


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