Covet
P Patti Masterman
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She steals serendipitous words from the dead
Ranges them on comely pages,
Sybaritic springs filled to overflowing
Metered precisely, to the raving adulation of crowds.
Only dark closets speak to me,
Crying out their hoary linen secrets
While musty air clog my lungs.
Why can't I have ghosts, fragrant as wind,
Free as balloons, loosed of their tether,
Instead of pilfered dust balls
And scattering bed bugs?
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