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place in teller-posted

Obliterature

Sunday, 27 June 2010

and what of that constant moon,
thigh-white and breast-full?

and the prodigal mariner
adrift in search of sweet olde shores,

vexed by the springs and neaps
of seasonal tides?

our poetry is writ,
shimmering
in their relentless waters.
Posted by tomas at 15:55

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written on reams of teller paper, snatched from without the stops and gaps of dead time and the bundles of daily work.
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