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and to think i saw it on floyd terrace

Tim Martin's Sonnet Project

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

His Kung Fu

and this ten day stint he passes
amongst friends, calls dry glass
pain is familiar but not the memory
digs an almost untrue advisor
where natural nurses inside us move
to choreography for snowblind faculties
left between family and wooden trains
coated gentry as a dickens village
in the last chair for papa bear
too late for screams; too early for stars
mistakes us for youth in our interruptions
like how blue is a color at rest
that grow the volunteer class in america
unafraid to hurt for this work


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