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  Manfred Gabriel

The Mint



The blanks
I have them here
Shiny but worthless to you

I will not sell words
To the man who called
When you weren't there

I need my words
To buy a little of you
You who cannot be bought
Who listens impatiently
Who looks up from the page

At night in the cellar
While you're breathing upstairs
I feed blanks to the mint
Turning words into coins
Longing to tender

 

 

 

 




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