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Teresa Wright

tracing twaddle dot by dot, letter by letter

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Still, The Morning

Crying east, 

I twist and yawn, 

lose myself in the coming dawn. 

Still, the morning comes. 

Still the morning wipes the night, 

dizzied time without your light 

shining on to me. 


Looking west, 

you yield and smile, 

take a breath and fly awhile. 

Yesterday lays down. 

Yesterday lays down the day, 

in the rain, and skies so grey, 

washing over me. 


Vexing south, 

I crouch and glare, 

chill myself against this too hot air. 

Still, the fires are lit. 

Still the fires are lit to burn, 

puzzled locks inside click and turn, 

unlocking me. 


Smiling north, 

you sing and laugh, 

alter a line, change a paragraph. 

And so, the words are penned. 

And so the words are penned in need, 

sure things like a word or deed, 

embracing me. 




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