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Three am, isn't poetry
provisional diamonds
empty cigarette, filter tubes

space
and ticking clocks

how to know 
when freshness stales?

will the past
please step forward
smoke up halls
exhale the refills

Four am, isn't poetry
black coffee's
stay of execution

feeling
nothing
that wasn't
swallowed

Five am, without intrigue
inside out
outside yellow

limping blades
hoarfrost



© 2017 Tammy Mezera
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