Melinda Foshat

Poetry, Prose, Photography


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Her hips across the hours
Tribal- her dark glasses
As we walked in threes through Hell.

Nothing whole
Except a hand size full of food wasted.

Teeth sharpened.
Hawks improvising the sound of flight.

At this point-
Watches
And useless piles of shit.

How many people there were at this Nightmare,

When Dreams piled high with bottles
Have anywhere to go.

© Copyright – All rights reserved – Melindafoshat.wordpress.com – September 24, 2018

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