Gypsum Poetry by Mackenzie Butts | Monday’s are homespun and heavy, a tepid, toiling trade. Soft are not hands that scrape the earth, or bear the sun’s disdain. Alabaster skin knows nothing of this clay; though her gypsum soul could make me whole, any other day.

Poetry – Gypsum

Gypsum

Monday’s are homespun and heavy,
a tepid, toiling trade.
Soft are not hands that scrape the earth,
or bear the sun’s disdain.
Alabaster skin knows nothing of this clay;
though her gypsum soul could make me whole,
any other day.


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Much love and many books,

Mackenzie Butts

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