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The eyelid browses down

like a tunnel wall collapsing

in a mudslide and all


the automobiles and spitfire drivers

slam softly into

the crucified for slumber’s sake one man

no other way around this


brown blur with black in it

litter of nickels,

and dimes.

S a r a h   J .  S l o a t







copyright 2014 by Sarah J. Sloat

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