Eulogy by Paul Guest
I no longer remember why this poem mattered. I found it tonight written on a torn flyleaf. I keep thinking if I did that—rip out a page from a book, I mean. And if I did—what kind of person was
I no longer remember why this poem mattered. I found it tonight written on a torn flyleaf. I keep thinking if I did that—rip out a page from a book, I mean. And if I did—what kind of person was
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