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Poetry | >> |
| How Full of Sound the Night Can Be Bereft of spoons, I balance three forkfuls of cocoa to my mug. I lean back in my father’s old chair, the good one, in the corner facing the ash soiled fireplace. I feel a spot I didn’t know ached loosen in my back. I twist and gaze on the piled dishes, and again, for one moment, hear you hum your formless tune to childlike percussion of dishes in the sink. -Alastair Llewellyn Drong- |