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March 11, 2007
PTEROSOMETHINGOROTHER
my son goes into the ground
what connects us is only
this rope
as always a big scissors
a prehistoric bird
a pterosomethingorother
wincing in the moon’s light
an armful of cuts
my son’s and mine
turn like leaves or birds
become scars
Comments
Razovsky
said…
sweet one.
Stu
Comments
Stu