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by George Freek


Clouds soft as pillows
smother the moon.
My clock ticks like an
incessant toothache.
I sit beside the river.
All night I hear waves
beat the shore, as if
it were a door,
they wanted to open.
A bird shrieks from
pain or from fear.
I’m now over seventy.
I have no idea how
I got here.


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