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spysgrandson
Poems
Jan 2016
minus 235.14 degrees Celsius*
what remains here, after you,
makes sound only the finest instruments
can detect--waves
from deep space
the December blast outside
a summer breeze compared to dead air
in this heated tomb
quilts you left smell of us
wrapped in two of them, I'm still
shivering, staring at the
door you shut,
surprised
it did not shatter,
so bound by ice
*-235.15 degrees Celsius is absolute zero
Written by
spysgrandson
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