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The Third in an Unplanned Series of Milk Poems I pour The crimson, turquoise and golden Swirled milk Of my poetry Over the brittle Raisin bran Of my brain In it's gray Ceramic bowl I try not be heavy handed But as I'm trying To figure out If it's whole milk I soak the flakes They squish and break. But luckily They were frosted With sweet anguish. And the very milk That ravaged the flakes But a moment ago Is now flavored And ready for slurping.
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