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Unripe morning

cut open too soon

gushes sour light across the sheets

to curdle dawn’s uneaten skin

and sluices down the culverts

where night squats

facing into the corner

still fingering its curious soft wounds.



Betsy Sharp (she, her) lives and works on a small, off-grid island in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in Heavy Feather Review, Creative Nonfiction, Capsule Stories, The Sun, Crab Creek Review, and other places. Find her on Twitter: @BetsyASharp.
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