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When asked to write about senses
The skeletal fingers of March's trees
reach across the street
above automobiles that graciously
slide across the snow.
Dias
layer themselves up
upon days
And nights
blacker than the water surrounding submarines
swallow up the stars
So what you see
is three-hundred-years-ago-dead
and what you get
is numb fingers
snowy shoulders
a waterfall of mucus cascading
to your chattering teeth.
