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Dec 2018
Open eyes and rise,
lope to the bath,
salt meridians on cheeks,
third day this December,
though no dreaming cries
whose bleach-paths
waken one weak
are remembered;
the night-face dries
and the aftermath
is grief's white speech,
a scrawl in slumber,
unmapped marks
a brush's lead-white arcs.
Evan Stephens
Written by
Evan Stephens  44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)   
107
 
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