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Marian Webb
7th June 2013, 11:50 PM
White sky. My
eyes are dusty
dry.* I wish I could
weep.* There's a
drought drawn-out. I
might have wept when my
father died. White
blood. His hair
white, he was white, I
wept at his funeral.* We all did.* Now I've
wept myself
dry.

Rain.
The plants drink. The leaves
flutter. My eyes dusty
dry and I'm
heavy as the rain-soaked
sky.


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