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Tuesday, April 5, 2011

There are tender drops that run along the dark ridges of the bark marking each breath. Where did I leave myself along the way? Was it on that little bench in Palermo where the cats brush up against you craving for love? Or the river bank catching crawfish on Wolf Hollow Rd. You were there I think but it could have been anyone. There are no more armies, just spies sneaking in the corners reminding you of your past. Time to brush of the dust and get off the bench. I think I see blossoms pushing their way through the rain.

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