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poet

Sue Owen

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poem
In the dark pit of hell,
I imagine that the pitchfork
comes in pretty handy
to hurl the evil ones

into their pitch-black places,
hurls, flings, and tosses
them down as a part of
their permanent torment there.

And as I imagine how those
sharp prongs of the pitchfork
sort and pierce, I can
almost hear the agony