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Zachary Sharp

A Squall A Fit A Draft A Temptest

Those love poems I write, I don't
know who they're for any more
than I know the next direction
this wind will take,
nor how the raked leaves'll
receive them,
but I'd rather be anywhere else,
in an instant leave when
each squall I fail to repress
and forget, each unrequited tempest
for every lyric's unwitting subject, slips.

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