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Poetry By
Seth Oakman
Sunday morning. Just one small fragment on weekends. The letters barely scribbles; Dear
There is a hole lining the foot of mother's coffee table. a splintered beam. It reminds me how He'd drive the hardened spike belt. He made things endure as long like that ten pound sledge hammer on the floor, like modern art. That hammer! It was his; he "keep these safe." And I would try because nails were that way on purpose. |
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