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Onoma
Poems
Mar 2018
Orange Grip
To what tired
end does fire
lose its orange
grip?
Will it ever let
go its final
handful of night?
A fabric too
rich for time
is torn.
Keepsake's keepsake's
keepsake.
There's not a gawddamn
angel or devil nimble
enough to part those
fingers.
Written by
Onoma
NYC
(NYC)
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Me Díaz
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