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Jim
Fowler
Letter From Below
Our brother writes of his walks
among men, Atlas.
Complains he and Pandora
are suffering from the cold.
Hides of ox do little to ward off
wind and rain, nights pitch black.
Send fire, thoughtful brother,
for I forgot it in the forming.
Even Pandora’s heat, a surprise
from old Zeus, isn’t enough. Her hot spirit,
sly tongue, and beauty overwhelm all,
but give no warmth to lonely men.
Just a spark, dear Prometheus,
for I’ll use the box as tinder.
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