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Claudia Schmidt
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Longing
What is unsaid fills the tiny spaces between syllables, Insinuates itself after commas and semicolons, At the upturned sentence end, before the fall of consonant And at the rounding of the vowel
What is unsaid roars against the intake of breath After every third or fourth word, and recedes For a paragraph or so Until it cannot bear its unsaying
Then seeks a portal from its own confinement Into the rattle-a-tat-tat of the saying and the said Out of the simple longing To be with its own kind
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