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PoetryRecovery

Words fumble out,
   nervous and naked.
Each one formed
  out of thin
 brittle
   glass.

They drop -
  from tremoring fingers.
Each little pang
    each little crystalline
 	shatter;
   the cruel quake of -
     impact.

Each little pain, like a wish -
    murdered, a dream -
  waking, sudden;
    it's a little death.

Maybe it is not
    so important
when small things
	- die.

Ask the fly
      how it felt
	when it saw
         the windshield -
       Coming.

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