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Poetry
Utterly Hushed
Jim Dewitt
this is the story of
plenty of plums whose bruises
need mending, flattened out
for the count
in a little-enough bowl . . .
how my mouth ached to yell "stop"
but the brutal blows
went on landing
like mustangs' toenails
and now their poor pit-colors
cannot bleed off
though they bend without breaking
beyond sunset
the solitary witness
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