Is the book
still king
on some other planet? Do inventions run
along parallel sun
rays? She asks
these questions without knowing
what to believe
anymore about the universe or red doors. Who
she might trust
to protect these poems
from shattering into weightless space debris
is who she might ask
to answer the rest.
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It’s a scary old world out there and poems need a safe place to rest just as much as the rest of us. Liked this poem much.
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Thanks. They sure do.
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