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Poetry Competition: Anonymous

Stiff

I have placed my being into a ceramic pot. It is here that I lie with my

toes tucked

and my elbows cold against its dry, shaded form.

We know not

how to toss our hearts into a container with a lid, and I know not

how to rid my black clothing of this residual

dust,

for I am stuck inside of this pot

and invariably I hit my head on its top

and dust settles gently once more unto my aching knees.

I have yet to see a person, and I cannot help but hope one day to hear the delicately optimistic sound of

ceramic on ceramic.

And so once more I peek with desperation and a strained eye through the crescent opening at the top of this pot,

waiting eagerly for its shape to begin waxing and the pain in my legs to subside.

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