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At Blackmere

From the June/July 2024 Print Edition

My trachea’s a well that draws up pailsOf cloudy rainwater, my bronchiolesRivulets in a fen, my lungs dark balesOf sodden straw. My eyes are bowls Of dirty sleet. My limbs are sedge and mossIn mist meandering like mercury.The fever fills and falls in me. I tossThe blankets off then drag them back . . . . Continue Reading »