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Mar 2012
A thin, red trail
slaps the pavement,
becomes so swollen,

strands trip around
the neck and cut
deep where there,

in the slick trickles
pulled to small floods,
sinking out, a tip

of the tongue cry
never quite confirmed,
stays strangled. Drips

and ebbs with bottle
in hand, a scarf
in the other. Like ribbon

it weaves into spaces,
drenches the ground
until everything is art.
Conor Letham
Written by
Conor Letham  West Midlands, UK
(West Midlands, UK)   
     Jake and Reece AJ Chambers
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