Dear Time's Waste

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The page is often corrupt and mud-stained, and torn and stuck together

with faded leaves, with scraps of verbena or geranium. To read this poem

one must have myriad eyes, like one of those lamps that turn on slabs

of racing water at midnight in the Atlantic, when perhaps only a spray

of seaweed pricks the surface, or suddenly the waves gape and up

shoulders a monster.

contact deartimeswaste@gmail.com

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