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Bobwhite

June 11, 2012

Ever fierce pet dog
hunt you, running, leave
spear tip prints. No fear,
like angel said. (Could
be so wicked pain
worse, it mean.) Could be
orb-toe mountain cat,
out for snack—last time
white tail, today fat
bird. That trail-a-chicks
too small to matter. Bug
babies safe—hear?—for
all your howling and
tipsy mother act. It
do no good. Sayin’.

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From → Trashword Poems

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