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Sunday By Kathline Carr


Sunday death, clip from newspaper. A sudden death, on a Sunday.


Saturday dreamed of frustrations, trying to bake without flour, salt:


in my effort to assemble ingredients I kept missing friends who came to call. I was never ready when they arrived


they would leave again.


The dream had a disintegrating quality light of morning found only pieces remaining— I was poorly equipped to perform a job.


The alchemic process of arriving at a poem— knocking, petitioning for entry, leaving before it‘s ready—


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