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The Black Tear


Slowly an oil spill appears upon the bare sea.
Putter so sound of mind not free to destroy
She beat down upon the goose—it looked like a smashed hand towel.
Thrice she said with flattering fins and intense sighs.
That black death picked up the torn wing and stapled it back on the angel
An oven or a lethargic european swallow is the key
Hope for you is not a morning dove, rather a mourning Indian summer
Even as she flees, the oil spill turns to see the black tear chasing her into the sanctuary
Neighing out in frustration, the shark pounded violently.


 Black Death