M E R E D I T H   Q U A R T E R M A I N
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THREE POEMS

 

 

Silt

 

Ah, yes –
let's address each thing around.
Invent a street for the squirrel,
a post code for the leaf
that has fallen
to ground.

A branch to city this
soil of dominion.

From the glacier of belief.

n e x t

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