What tricks
will the day play
on her, she wonders. And she wonders
which former
lover will seep
through the retaining wall. One from here
or one from back east.
Those two in California
were not always so far west. She’s not
a humorless bitch.
She repeats. Not a humorless
bitch—just because she’s not
laughing with the day.
this seems to be a painful poem
if your words were seeds what would grow in the amy garden ?
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wild flowers mostly I think.
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