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When We Were Dead

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HomePoetryWhen We Were Dead

Someone picking strings of a banjo song,
the moss grew heavy as if being corn fed,
as the humidity hung over the antihelium.

No one told us that we were dead,
like canned peaches in formaldehyde,
keeping faith in the kudzu.

What the dirt wouldn’t take,
the poke salad choked,
sagging from the live oaks…
when we were dead.

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