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Iris  —  Connie Payne

April is a thin place as the Irish say,

the fine line between now and nowhere

stomped into the fooking mud and

the nakedness of life on bare display

—sunlight glinting off frozen marsh

high nests clinging to the barren past.


Can you hear the wind move

through its emptiness?   In April

everything is owned by no one.

We belong to what endured

and once again we are excused,

given nature’s pardon to resume.


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Red Mask  —  Connie Payne


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