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Maples opening red like it’s

fall all over. I’m against

reversals because suffrage.

The sky is streaky. Grubby

hands daubing charcoal. Children

though, can’t reach beyond

a kite. When’s the last time anyone’s

seen a kite sans ocean? April has

forsythia but hasn’t figured how

to bring this year’s goods. As

if. What could be good now?

1 thought on “Wrenching

  1. This poem is good now. <3

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