A poem that should never have been written, and yet it was

I rifled through the drawers of death.

I took back all my letters.

Death she never wrote me back.

She let me hang here ever.

	JCL on Quiet solace
	JCL on Pause to consider
	JCL on I put my finger on realit…
	Leanne Cole on In no hurry
	Tansy Gunnar on How is it that not every song…

	JCL on Quiet solace
	JCL on Pause to consider
	JCL on I put my finger on realit…
	Leanne Cole on In no hurry
	Tansy Gunnar on How is it that not every song…

Utrecht Journal