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| GUNSHOT
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1.
He falls without grace, plummets.
A body sack of wet sand
hurtles to a pervasive blankness.
The moon
is a hawks claw that grips
nothing, and he wakes out
of the trance too late,
now Ive done it. Already falling.
A hand held out at the bottom,
nine
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from new poems
TBD
2009
Copyright © Jim Slominski |
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