Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Wes Benson Undivided There's the fact of things at my back door. I put it there. Put it here. Is it so unspecific. I don't know what it's for. It flowers in the flowerbed. Its unspecific blossoms compare themselves. I cross the grass to my car. Undivide the doing so. The blossoms aiming all the while at me, at me. Next Poem
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