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ARTLOOK #7 | December / January 2004/2005
Annie Crawford
The ACT Poetry Award
Torso
A sculptors hands softened your marble
the wind blows through your vocal chords
you were flying but lost your wings
I saw you melt when lightning hit
ghost feelings haunt your missing limbs
in a still moment in the rubble
dust peaches your smooth torso
grass grows up through your thighs
you rest caressed by rain
and remember everything that happened
your head is in a box in England.
