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If all goes well, he’ll make us forget there was a tiger among us.

Jeans sagging low, and boxers bared to the world, he looked like a baboon.

Like prized heirlooms pawned to purchase bread, I would give up these memories.  

The catalpa stands: an entrance guard bearing a shield of dragon scales.

The problem: She has not had a good cry in a while. Only sad ones.

On the window sill I wait: for poetry to rise and infuse me

Wrinkles: striations left after the glacier Time has flowed over us.