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Michael W Noland
Poems
Feb 2013
Trophy room
Her hand untangled from the coiled roots
Unraveling from her closing wounds
She stepped atop the mud and soot
And looked upon the crescent moon
She shook while she wept
And as her arms stretched out
She dispersed into a cloud
That lowered back down
Into the swampy ground
And not a sound
Was heard
By anyone
But her
And I
Written by
Michael W Noland
Seattle
(Seattle)
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