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An Untitled Poem 

—on the train to Sloan Kettering—

a boot-back
Kerouac

at the window

watches the river
rattle on by
a hard grey rain
spinning
like a spider

—the train door slams—

the carny red
sky retreats

sometimes
the ripple of
a tree.

Speaking of...

  • An untitled poem by E. Gironda, Jr.

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