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Joanne Hart

Spring’s Summit

 

 

This morning it wasn’t meaning to rain. I didn’t even owe

Now a story not worth telling. compulsive from a skittish memory who

 

I met a blues player. washed up cup

Put away til vodka

 

You poems and poets rupture my trunk in graft. the anti pain killer

Not gaugeably inflicted. nosing into the corners of eyes

 

Unprotected stream beds suffer the open sky. holed up in any-where’s silence

Trotting behind its endless stone wall. if turning to write appeared

 

Laugh may have history but not definition. a crash of joy of secret slaughter

 

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