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At a desk, coffee sachets rest.
Long-life milk harbours
white dreams of expiry.
Shuffling in his forgetful nest
a grey man blinks
at the intruding light.

Americo, do you remember
your antique power,
that opened like a rose
on the walls of Hiroshima?
The mad November rain
As dizzy as the days ahead of us
How can we confess to nothing
And own our mistrust of the morning
Our comfort is our coffee
Forecasting tomorrow’s meridians
We are abbreviated dictionaries
Silenced before the skies
Of never-ending opinions
We are the unstrung troubadour
Mourning all his categories
Lies are told endlessly
Begging questions and memories
More often than is really necessary
The glint in your eyes
When I cupped your moons
Was only a prelude
To the gravitational pull
Between two heavenly bodies
Finally untethered
From the chains
Of solitary confinement
dead in the night
all alone
dead inside

eyes wide open
glued to the ceiling
gone all mental healing

all the overthinking
praying for redemption
followed by slow blinking
for shame, i'm left with feelings of abnegation.
 Nov 28 Sue Collins
Tom Dodd
As I step through
a small patch of woods
this fine morning
I feel the cold breath
of Winter on my neck
I catch a glimpse
of a rabbit's white tail
bobbing in and out of my sight
It's Thanksgiving
and this moment of near silence
is not lost on me
As I head back
I pretend to be a woodsman
following the last of Autumn's
long shadows
to a warm house
that will soon fill of family and friends
and I am grateful for it
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