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Echoes
In the gym
a basket ball bounces
to a stop.
On Early Maps
fat rivers invade the land
like the tendrils of a kraken.
Daffodil Buds
Brush heads
plump from the paint pot
in the sky.
Murder
A single bullet
is always heard
more clearly.
Winter
On the gravel path
a tracery of shadows
falling from the trees.
Tristan Moss
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tristan Moss
would be pleased to hear them.
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