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     by Bates Corlieu	

I’m the lame bag lady gathering words
going through garbage (like the torn Bosnian women
wander their souls looking for sanity)
I rummage for words: sharp enough to slice
found by a glint or a prick
among all the propped up posturing
wishing for one so shiny it sings louder than the filth
of thrown down lives cracked like eggs
on our own front porches