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Flood by Eliza Griswold

Work work work work work. But pauses are for poems.

Eliza Griswold

I woke to a voice within the room. Perhaps.
The room itself: “You’re wasting this life
expecting disappointment.”
I packed my bag in the night
and peered in its leather belly
to count the essentials.
Nothing is essential.
To the east, the flood has begun.
Men call to each other on the water
for the comfort of voices.
Love surprises us.
It ends.

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