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Poetry
Curse
M. A. Roberts
Goddamn the cold
goddamn the cold
and the crow that
sits on the cut
trunk at the edge
of the meadow.
Goddamn the cold
the locked back door
and the key you
used to leave under
the flower pot.
Goddamn the cold
and the woods I've
returned from with
an arm load of
kindlin' to start
again a fire in
your fireplace.
But you've gone and
cannot know I've
come carrying
home—elements
that will this time
burn.
Goddamn the cold
Goddamn the crow
looking over me.
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