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Dec 2016
Even birds look ominous,
and are.

The pasty trees disclose
no silence:
rook-voice
dandifies this March.

Inside my skull
a hair-line fracture shifts.

The mind’s thin powders
function slowly,
doused in tears.

You stare incredulously
when the bullet’s wild velocity
has entered you.

Your eyes scorch dry,
and slump.
Jonathan Finch
Written by
Jonathan Finch  Thailand
(Thailand)   
225
   Andrew Name
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