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July/August 2000

Not Some Abstract But A Poem By Robert Mauro.   She never sees his body as some twisted thing no gunny sack of bones with a set of eyes like stones   he is not to her all gnarled like some old tree trunk scorched by white lightning a limb snapped off by the wind   he is not to her some set of tangled roots rotting in the mud or loam no. to her he is lush leaves of grass not some abstract but a poem Robert Mauro   Back to table of contents