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By the Stony Riverbed - Poem

By the Stony Riverbed

They always wear old
shoes and march to a rock
sticking out. On a tree root,

a red shoe hangs. Its shoestring
waves faster in the river,
and they jumped off. Their bubbles

come from the dark
green water and I only hear summer
cicada songs. Carefully,

the world listens to them
sinking. I like
to think of their pale

faces. When I see the glistening
short hair as they swim to the riverbed,
I want to push back their naked

shoulders and throw their shoes

into the river again and again.

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