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Jul 2020
this heap of words is soft
like old sweaters piled up
warm only where my body presses into it and molds
valleys of fabric and wrinkles of textile undulating
the shape of my hope
curving the scent of far waters
like a fountain spouting out and quenching
my mind with stillness
not far
but here in my palm
I hold patience
Guadalupe S Partida
Written by
Guadalupe S Partida  31/Los Angeles, CA
(31/Los Angeles, CA)   
31
 
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