Fall 2015
I care only about the little body wiggling in that plastic bassinet.
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I usually get my best writing done at night or at the close of day.
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I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams.
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I wanted to forget my parents’ slow dying together in Ohio.
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On a scale of 1 to 10, the pain dissolves like a Eucharist wafer.
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You try to confess your crime of turning the world into words.
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I have been enshrouded for months by the weak winter sun.
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