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Apr 2013
in the slow heaving of late
afternoons you
distill into columns, dusty
salmon painting mock
gold mirrors
under
the crowded blue, paling,
as
fragments tear
roll,
together, apart,
amidst
your
symmetric relationships, opening up
in
to
wings, in every direction, and
you
tear
my
head
right in half

sitting on the sky
doing all this nothing
Tom McCone
Written by
Tom McCone  Wellington
(Wellington)   
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