7 To W. Nobody would care if my body becomes a crumpled Scrap of paper, my legs and arms crippled by creases, cramped Till they rip, wrinkles cracking not only my face -- my bones, My eyes rippled, with any image distorted -- A scrap of paper Smashed beneath the loaded lead of words, With letters disrupted, Tortured, And reconnected in gibberish. Nobody would care. Nobody. But you.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Returned Mail
Collected Poems

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