poetry critical

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when my fingers won't move briskly
I'm in the mood but lacking whisky
the summer night is super sticky
too fast to stop, too slow for quickie
the fan blows soft at the back of my head
something I love -- sweet and strong -- has fled
and through the blind, and bugged pane, a tiny light
tells me nothing's right
this is how I free up time
to make a silly, frozen rhyme

25 Jul 12

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