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by Johanna May

Quiet, you know,
in tidy couplets.

Contrasts, penance
of the crass.

A minute-long saunter
In the eyes.

In the language
you dream in, it lives-

as well as the shores
where it breaks too.

You pick the shells,
is what you do.

On a nice day, shards
are shiny and pretty,

On a just day,
it hurts you.


Posted on 05/26/2021
Copyright © 2021 Johanna May

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