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  • Writer's pictureBethany Stimac

forty winks

and spring, i feel,

is something of a certainty.

winter had come, but i saw no snow.

what is there, really,

if one’s “destined to know?”


i’ve had moments veiled to another’s soul

which cried out to be fulfilled.

i am not in chains,

my heart races,

(i see you, oliver, in other faces)


and find taste between my splintered graces.

yet i still can’t tell if it’s real.


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