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Click heremy tact is not sharp
it bounces off of that part
the thing on your sleeve
now limping in a circle we find our
peers peering down to us in the pit
we dig daily,
we are lopsided,
tilted and scratched,
leaning apart,
missing points at each
completed round,
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 38,000 poems.
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