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rss.xml
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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><rss xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" version="2.0"><channel><title><![CDATA[pockets]]></title><description><![CDATA[pockets]]></description><link>http://www.michaelzcheng.github.com</link><generator>RSS for Node</generator><lastBuildDate>Sat, 17 Aug 2019 21:39:24 GMT</lastBuildDate><item><title><![CDATA[No title]]></title><link>http://www.michaelzcheng.github.com/oil lamp/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.michaelzcheng.github.com/oil lamp/</guid><pubDate>Sat, 17 Aug 2019 21:38:09 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><pre>
burn a wick meekly
with seed oil,
from the urn unfull.
like platonic love
unconsummated,
wanting,
but sufficient
</pre></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[No title]]></title><link>http://www.michaelzcheng.github.com/fever/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.michaelzcheng.github.com/fever/</guid><pubDate>Mon, 29 Jul 2019 16:40:48 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><pre>
Her fever dreams hang a hair
over the bedside -and down
.
over
the white linen skirt, gazing
into
that gap
-
that place,
where her thoughts tend to hide.
And when soft breezes wake her briefly,
between new conversations,
with an old friend,
maybe
she sighs, that the sun still lingers,
or that the icebox is so far away.
down the hall,
across the steps of cool tile,
humming its favorite tune.
</pre></content:encoded></item><item><title><![CDATA[No title]]></title><link>http://www.michaelzcheng.github.com/pockets/</link><guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.michaelzcheng.github.com/pockets/</guid><pubDate>Tue, 23 Jul 2019 15:50:47 GMT</pubDate><content:encoded><pre>
in chicago, the cold breeze-sweeps
the hands of boys and girls
into the safety and shelter
of suede and felt
... corduroy pocket
dwellings hiding
each child's treasure trove:
1. multicolor dryer lint
2. Incredibles 2 ticket stub,
3. hard candy, RED
4. a shining penny (from his birth year)
handle each
item blindly
roll over
tip and palm.
don't think of the face sting!
but of home,
and your toes
buried in the shag carpet.
</pre></content:encoded></item></channel></rss>