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The Size of It

Look, he said, leaning across
discoloured silence, the lack
of light burying his words.
Donít you see?

Her eyes tried the volume of it:
bass notes she couldnít grasp,
the straining treble fluttering
up to a veil of cloud.

The creature might be love.
Or something entirely different.

D A Prince


If you have any comments on this poem,  D. A. Prince would be pleased to hear from you.

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