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A quarterly international literary journal

January Frieze

/ Poetry /

There was music wailing

from room 308 late on a

Sunday night and your teeth

were shiny straight while I

was chewing on the blues.

My scissors were dull, your

snowflake cuts too perfect. I

pulled bits of white paper

scraps out from your hair

while you yawned, looking at

your watch, as if to remind

me of time. I pretended not to

see you and arranged those

paper scraps into stars. I built

a universe around your knees,

and the snow kept on falling

until sleep.


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