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i don’t think (our soul knows or cares at all about our veneers), or; bone dry in a forest of rain

Posted byZakMay 22, 2021August 15, 2023Posted inPoetry

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Posted byZakMay 22, 2021August 15, 2023Posted inPoetry

Published by Zak

poetry of place. words in service of the wordless. View more posts

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typically the rain collected in buckets placed at the terminus of gutter is enough to water plants in the greenhouse
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it’s a minus tide so the home expectorates most of its inhabitants into the saline dream of pools, briefly abandoned
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