if I lived by cancer’s warnings, my face would never feel like warm butter my cold arms wouldn’t goose bump with the mix of heat and tingle bare legs would never walk through a field and melt in f
for some reason sitting in this morning’s sun reminded me of the Jersey Shore my skin felt the same crackle of heat that came when laying on a towel, listening to waves, the cackle of children I r
much like photographers, poets capture the world through different lenses, hole up in a dark room and carefully develop the image on paper when I put the hardware down for a day or two, I worry that
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