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Tom Thing Poems


I

Here is where everything
sings with the flint box
voice of limitless angels.

II

Silkwood means anything
resplendent and growing warm
brass with dawning spring.

III

Something in the dusk's deep
breeze brought intimations of
hewn whispers intent on romance.

IV

But nothing is like
sleeping in the candle
twin bed mother slept in.

Copyright 2006 by Greg Baysans

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