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The world is not small,but eternity
rolled up in a ball.
It shrinks to this size when you leave the room
or the country, or
the continent where I stand patiently.
The world is made of
seven billion plots of sand-strewn land.
Too late, I wish hard
that I had asked you to promise to beam
Me love on midnights.
The world is made of tightly strung rubber bands.
Our hands are soul mates.
Yours are made of twinkle lights and play-doe.
I miss you. You are
Missing. I’m missing.
The world is made of infant twists of hope.
Poetry Sun Sestina
Fall 2007-Spring 2008
Spring 2007 Poetry Fiction
Fall 2006 Edition Plays Poetry
Spring 2006 Edition Spoken Word Fiction Photos Poetry
Fall 2005 Edition Spoken Word Fiction Photos Poetry
Fall 2004 Edition Non-Fiction Fiction Poetry
Archives Spring 2004 Edition Fall 2003 Edition Spring 2003 Edition Fall 2002 Edition
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