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A Poem by Abel Folgar: Sixteen


Pry the veined leaves from the
sea, their focus unmitigated by
cyan-tinged promises of subterfuge,
obfuscation, derailment and

the tender lament of
topiaries long forgotten and
cast into the shadows of an
ugly and slow descent.

Now is the moment of reflection,
now the sky can kiss the wet hand
in a subtle manner,
noted for its depth of congenial

gravity, its lack of emotive
harrumph a coiled seahorse’s tail,
a way to drift listless,
wrecked and comatose.

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Enjoyed this. But especially enjoyed FAT MAN AND LITTLE BOY. Please keep them coming.

— Larissa · Nov 14, 06:43 PM · #

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