Poetry

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“As if we were distinct, she whispered” — I cannot tell if it is really a poem, or merely a fragment waiting to be completed. It is shorter than “The Red Wheelbarrow,” by William Carlos Williams, by only one line, so I know its completeness depends not upon its length. Perhaps the image it paints waits upon its own completion.

I realize, looking at my poems, that I should:

1. write more of them, and more often
2. provide dates for them, since I cannot remember when I wrote some of them

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