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      October 8, 2012UnsongPhyllis M. Teplitz

      Poems torn from
      my eighty years,
      scribbled on scraps
      or typed on my Mac

      now lie piled in files, stored
      in drawers, stacked on tables,
      copied on floppies,
      saved on my hard drive.

      Still, I pictured them scattered
      by a thoughtless flurry
      of wind,
      drenched by winter

      showers. All
      my meticulous metaphors,
      melted. My carefully crafted words,
      reduced to meaningless blurs.

      from #23 - Summer 2005