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02.05.11
A bag of lemons
rests on the kitchen counter—
a day not wasted.

02.06.11
White feathers litter
sides of pavement—suddenly
a lifting of wings.

02.07.11
Broken willow strands
cross walkways in cursive script—
illegible words.

02.08.11
Too tired to think.
Fan hums, mumbles to itself.
The night settles down.

02.09.11
The mirror reflects
back an empty wall, falling
lights, angled and arched.

02.10.11
I should be looking
for new words and fresh phrases,
yet I close the book.

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