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Mid Stream
 By Kenneth Frank Doig

No more options,
 Spring fades, a green souvenir.
Mid stream astride slippery boulders,
 Substance like fool's gold caught in ripples,
  Hopes sluiced bare of desire,
   Summer never happened.
Essence a reflection in a barber's mirror,
 Autumn almost gone.
Papers clog the fence like dirty snow,
 Winter, a newscast.

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Last update: June 8, 2001
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