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WHY I WRITE |
is sticky yet,” my friend muses as she wades through the long brown grasses “Yes,” she avows on contact I take her word for it The grasses have those sticky ends that find their way into my socks jab me scratch me follow me home I think of them all lined up on either side of the path as I pull those stickers from my jean cuffs before tossing them into the washer I think of them laughing in the moonlight hoping I’ll visit again soon ![]()
Copyright July, 2010 |