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Image for the poem Pa

Pa

The motions of the breeze spoke words. Sounding  
like words. Around me the dead in their postures waiting  
for the bird-of-paradise. As the russet leaves scatter
about the mottled flowers, spreading the mulch. But it's  
only a little garden of stones and pickled herring as pa
lay in his tux.
Written by adagio
Published
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