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Jan 2013
Four blocks of ice concealed in a cylindrical prison,
cubes-- they're so imperfectly not.
An eclectic mixture now gone,
empty drinks sweating circles on wood.
The owners in mismatched homes
of strangers well known.
Four blocks of ice saw it all,
saddened only when they lose the last drops they keep cold.
Sean Yessayan
Written by
Sean Yessayan
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