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winter in a frumpy coat

those solid white skies that hang
limp and wet, soggy milk rags
about to wring out their gloomy
boohoos all over me, i try to
see the sun but just see a tall
glass of watery milk, ready
to dump itself all over the heads
of trees – it’s okay, even the skies
sometimes need to be rung out to dry
tearing wind through our hair
poking us with sharp, cold sighs

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