Matthew D. Weigand

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Round Blue Table

Round Blue Table

In solitude it rests

Innate and lonely

Blue curves and

Black crevasses wonder

Across my fingertips like small round moons

Cervatious lines jump

Across my minds eye,

As I remember surreptitious nights

Under the fortalice of my youth

The touch and smell is reminiscent

Of the thick crickety air that soaks deep into the grain…

But she forgot to go away

From her little corner, where she stays.

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