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Sep
24
2012
Appeared in Free Inquiry, vol 32 issue 6

Anonymous

R. Nemo Hill


POEM Anonymous R. Nemo Hill A purplish cluster dashed by wind to dust and several coarser splinters, shot straight through with scattered gold—so every blossom must be seasonally vanquished—lost from view. Each purple mote’s a seed, I know, I know. Each one’s a conjuror of what has passed, of what...

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