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Mar 2014
Its name is bee.
Its name is fly.
It lands near me,
To catch my eye.

On coffee lid,
On wiper blade,
In barefoot Sun,
Or shoe in shade.

A wrinkling skin,
A finger still,
Remembered breath,
An open will.

It cleans its wing
With steady cause.
I'll take no life
That gives such pause.
Keith Ren
Written by
Keith Ren
467
   Marsha Singh
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