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Click hereShe collects bottles
stacks them on the windowsill
like blue sentries overseeing
barren paddocks
where Friesians once grazed.
Stubs the roll-your-own
in the ashtray between ochrous
fingers as she talks to them,
the blue shaped ornaments,
tells them her needs
and secrets, waits
for answers.
And then
designs her own
answers
when waiting
turns onerous.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 34,500 poems.
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This one I love. One incredible image after another. Grouping words in a way that made the images dance on the page.
Now I understand ~
That strange lady down the road
Really is not delirious;
Just giving voice to a silent universe.