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Poem Number 1180
I clench my fingers and feel my tongue throbbing
as first time sounds turn into words
babbling thoughts no one can know
formica backdrops chrome and vinyl
mother retreats to bedroom noise
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I see birds strung to fly from carousel beams
a nursery chime keeps me distracted
paper cranes, folded sean upon sean,
the protracted theme of mother reenacted.
A soft wind blows a feeing of familiarity
cacophony of a four-walled consciousness
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