Our featured poem...
lost
by Sue Lozynskyj
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A neat, dark-suited woman,
taster of wine,
asks a man with a shovel
for directions.
There's a rich tang
released as he lifts his arm
to point the way.
She gets coal-tar soap,
overlaid with lunchtime pie and bitter
with smoke of raw curry powder
crushed against wild garlic.
She moves in closer,
reckoning not to hear,
creeping to the edge of his trench
to cloud herself in his heat.
She thanks him,
steps out of sight,
and buys a street map.
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