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Poetry

Bunkered Down

Ryan McLellan

The rattle and roar
of a diesel engine
grinds up the driveway
and another five inches
falls while I spend
the day bunkered down,
a foxhole poet
keeping warm with words
and burning the crumbled
pages, poems that never were –

I read Woolf and Lorca,
eat the language to take in
the nutrients and write
lines with them in mind;
the wind whips against
the windowpane, slaps light snow
around in disgust
and sings a dismal lullaby
as I nod off
to the sounds of winter
outside –

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