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Monday, April 21, 2014

Poem for April 22


This morning I warm
to the notion we own
twenty-five years
and seventeen acres
out where they stopped
planting street lights long ago.

I hit the alarm for five more
minutes, curl to my left, lick the salt
on the back of your neck, stop
at the scooped out curve of your
lower back.

You don’t move. I get up.
Fry sausage.

Patty Cole

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