OPENING THE DOOR WITH A PIN
HE GRUBS FOR PURCHASE,
TUGGING FREE
THE FIRM TWIST OF MEAT
CHEWING IT
AS HE ROOTS OUT THE NEXT .
SPECKLED WITH THE RUST/BROWN
CIRCLES,TRANSLUCENT AS SCABS,
HE COULD SIT HERE FOREVER;
THE RUSTLE OF THE PAPER BAG,
THE SHELLS SCRAPING,THE RUMMAGE
THE SHUCK OF THE WAVES
POEM FROM A PANTED FIELD BY ROBIN ROBERTSON
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