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Perry Reis
Poems
Feb 19
A Dried Garden
The hours I spend watching
seasons from my window
have increasedΒ of late.
Today, my sister, Felice, came
to my chamber, saying:
"Gregory, the gate needs oiling."
"Gregory, the roof is in disrepair."
Disrepair? I should think so,
yet I am loathe to leave this
garden bower and the thrill of its
funerary dreams.
Written by
Perry Reis
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