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Evan Stephens
Poems
Nov 2019
Chesterfield
This morning's cigarette
I bought at the airport in Rome.
It wavers in a cold district
as I question my romances.
Dear cigarette, little acid stub
on a tile, you lived your span
in a long winding fume:
May my own life stick
to her hands like smoke.
Written by
Evan Stephens
44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)
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