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vanish things
Poems
Oct 2015
bonfire burial
it's three winters late
when you feed his sweater
into the fire's maw.
the yarn blackening
to the satisfied
crackle of wood.
we signal the sky
smoky contrails
reaching sand to horizon.
someone,
phone the medic
i think
her heart
is breaking
Written by
vanish things
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susan
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Robert C Howard
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Rainey Birthwright
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βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi
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