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Unbuttoning

Scratching the rusted face of the dust storm? to read the message. I have come very far, from the old stinks. It was not the escape. The unshaped sap, spills from the cut end? of treetops. I gather your cones. The fall begins abruptly. It was a landslide of leaf drop. Yellow and brown. I wait for the red. It reminds me of blood dripping from your poem. Satish Verma

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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