Near 'Cotton' Gins
J
James McLain
0
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Paper thin each lettered line.
Faces,
words that never go unheard of.
Yellow mound, of hollow blocks.
I am of things with eyes.
None ever hear,
Where you can't see.
Too touch a blind one.
That can't smell.
Where,
one may feel left out.
You rebuke me.
Jumbled letters.
Pen, red ink wells
near 'Cotton' gins
I, sleep by.
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