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by
Eliot
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Poems
Sep 2016
Comforter
We find ourselves like a bed
stripped of its sheets-
nothing left to be hidden.
All the stains hang onΒ threads
of all things that can't be washed clean,
no rinse and repeat
like your mother's crisp cotton,
once solid white sheets.
Written by
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332
Corey Parsons
,
The Ripper
,
---
,
Sea
and
Azaria
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