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by Kushal Poddar

A letter of apology, 
your birthday thing, saying- I think 
I stole time from you- spills on 
the wet pavement. No movement 
this morning. A bed of unborn 
flowers features a sleeping dog. 
God, I find myself susurrus, 
What did you steal from me? Would it 
be a theft if I do not feel 
the loss of it? And I turn 
towards the house, fail to find it
where I left it five minutes ago.

 

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