Poem: It Is Passing Strange.
It Is Passing Strange.
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I love looking in junk shops,
Emporiums of interesting histories.
Who knows where things have been
Or who invested them with meanings.
What game of chance
Deposited the pieces there
Redolent of other lives and loves.
It is passing strange to carefully pick about
In the jumbling together of other peoples’ dreams
And their lost intentions.
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