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Really,


by Gary Percesepe


You're an unfinished cathedral

I dreamt about

months afterward

 

But honestly,

you weren't worth

the accumulated dread

 

Like a blank rumor of

ice and smoke

you worked on me

 

I don't want to have to

speak to you again:

Can I be medicine

if you're the wound?

 

Those kinds of conversations

are over

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