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Categorypoetry

I don’t deny

I look up rugs and pads. Imagine measurements and the weight of heavy things. A spoonful of white dwarf. An anchor. To be here, and not to fly.

By design

What is here,by design,is umbilical to me.This feed of lifeand blood of red.But now,instead,a sorry headthinks of strifeand the future of a knife.