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Christine Fellows
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What Are Years?
Punctual to one tenth of one second, most exact I offer her this silent dedication, mother, my meridian
Ours, a seamless conversation, your dry wit and my words Float inside more flies in amber than poetry, I'd guess
Without your eye they are meaningless
The senseless unarrangement of wild things Just as they are, our ancestors Elephants, hornbills, mice and my favourite, anteater You suit me well...
The batter spits into his hand and claps Exemplars of art If I were to take whiskey I'd take it straight
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