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The Poem Before The Dream

MUDDY FISH

The farmed trout look mildly ashamed
wrapped in the fridge, never having seen

the wild. Anthropomorphizing I
forgive  their providence. They’re fresh

after all. I’m the sort of man gets
his fish from the store, the river too far

for him to walk.  The walleye he wants
undisturbed, gathering light, on the bottom.

 

 

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