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Dd. Spungin


The scent of brown earth
buried under dirty snow
teases faint memories

An end to my years seems closer
than it did last winter
when I dwelled more on plans for spring
than for grave digging

Where poems go to die
this year of grief and mourning
The energy crisis dwells within
I wave a white flag

I wait too long for new shoes
seek a soft bed of green
Peace ripped from my shoulders
Planting bodies makes me old

The streets are filled with failure
I will take my place
in the amnesia of shadows


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