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Sue Owen



If H is a house on fire, flame is the merciless dance. But the A next to it, contradicts. It is the A of water, of pails and tears. It is the A of quarrel. Day and night have not yet ended their disagreement and neither have the A and [...]

Playing Dead

Who will write this poem? Don't ask the silence. It doesn't answer anyone. Don't ask the alphabet, sound asleep again. Don't ask the pen. It is out of thought and ink. What will we write it with? Don't ask the pencil either, It has a b [...]