Poems by Bob Perkins

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Contrail

by Bob Perkins

From Canary Fall 2015

Bob lives on the California coast in the Santa Monica Watershed.

A jet fuel paper cut
on the sundown sky,
looks clean, shines white,
then bleeds out,
bubbles, scabs,
raises flesh,
and dissipates
leaving its transparent carbon scar,
one of a thousand scars this day




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