Friday, May 6, 2016

Mom Pome Poem

The bomb will always be hers belonging to that day. The bomb will be kept locked in an aftermath that keeps getting added up again and again to see if somehow there was some sort of mistake the rows of the dead lined up for all to see. This was wrong so wrong. Ongoing calculations. Subtracting an art to count on. Plus apples and their trees. Waiting for their fruit. Imagine.

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