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Leslie Philibert
Poems
Jan 2018
Narrative
traces of snow, black earth, roots
of devils hands that grasp at frost,
walls stenciled with cold growth,
a far dog coughs open a winter sunday
but we are scared to peek under the crust,
so we tick and turn, waiting for
a dark better than this, come soon...
the light of your eyes has become
pale and diffuse, here and longer in ice
Written by
Leslie Philibert
63/M/Germany
(63/M/Germany)
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