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Mar 7
Unfulfilled and filling
I am a bucket with the smallest hole.
A drain half clogged
We are bogged down
boats
wondering why we didn’t
remember
that the water’s shallow here.
And here lies the swallowed
words on the wayside.
The shivering, wavering
night skies.
He who lies
is also he who fixed the smallest hole.
On my inside.
Em
Written by
Em  Pittsburgh
(Pittsburgh)   
185
 
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