Anchored in
oblivion, attached to
lost friends, so
gone they have no fond
memories.
You do though…
the flowers picked, presented
to warm eyes,
neighborhood news man
bicycling.
Chestnut wars
fifty paces from “blue lake.”
She jumps in,
swims under water,
pulls shorts down.
Decisions
pile, conspire, socialize, while
baked clams soak.
You walk into gray.
Where’s Hyuntay?
The flight of tomorrow
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