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Apr 2019
First, a tundra in stasis;
a white-*****, emptied book
whose unmade letters sleep:
icy, furled, and blank. Then,

breath; a near audible thawing
of unbridled shapes and mute fire;
now, the bright stampede of hooves
breaking into the field. Next,

a poem about the process of conceiving and writing a poem. hope you like it.
Written by
Paul  sydney
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