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How fortunate is the world that it does not depend on my will. How fortunate am I that you keep watering the stem of our love, even when it withers, even when it has nothing to give.
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from Noir
Fred Muratori
My Blue Heaven
Max Winter
Chicago
Toni Olofsson
A Piece of Black Coal Found Under a Tree
Robert Bly
Forces
Jay Meek
Mary Koncel
Psalm
Thursday Afternoon: Life is Sweet
Holly Iglesias
Night Fishing
Nin Andrews
Pslam for Fay
Philip Dacey
Copyright 1999, The Prose Poem