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by Glen Armstrong

A few years ago.
I tried to grow tomatoes.
In buckets.
Even as I potted the soil.
I had the feeling that I would fail.
A few decades before that.
I ate paste and trembled.
When stray dogs approached.
Or coaches raised their voices.
A few centuries ago.
William Blake saw angels.
In the trees.
A few seconds ago I was thinking.
About William Blake.
Something broken.
That I drag behind me.
Started rattling again.
Something that we’d left unspoken.
Slipped from this world.
And demanded my attention.

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