Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
by Carl Sandburg
Laundry love
is tangled shirts
the hem of a skirt
caught
in the brass button
of your jeans
by L. L. Barkat
August Ice Cream Cone Poem
Lick
Quick
by Paul B. Janeczko
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