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2 poems by Neila Mezynski

Painter

This old man. Painter guy, T.V. and beer soaked videos. Scowling gray walls. New York.  New York. Pies, tender tomato plants upstairs. Vacancy.

 

 

Red Trees

Those screaming red trees and I gasp with delight. The sky. I want to drive up where the red meets the blue. Touch that place, go into it, put it on.  The shout against the whisper.  I wanted him to see it like me and love it like me. He, untouchable, unbeautiful, unreachable. He. Like color.

 

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