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Noah Matuszewski
Poems
May 2012
On Ruins
Behind my father's house
and across the creek
there used to be what used to be
an old mill.
Three black stone triangles speckled green
the carcasses of walls
ceiling free stood stooped around
a stagnant finger of water.
There is something sweet
in what sticks around
after a building fails.
Written by
Noah Matuszewski
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