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Ann Beaver
Poems
Jun 2018
Lonely box
Things circle and sway,
threads bare and fray,
I lean in to hear you
because I cannot clearly say
what this body knows.
Questions I pose,
frames I build
chaos ensnaring
What is your trick called, "caring"
A lonely box for each of us
blue. steel. cold.
Now it does rust.
Now, another day is sold.
Written by
Ann Beaver
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