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2015-12-25
another wasn't


Old poems fall from trees and scrape across the midnight church yard. The remains of my family die off slowly in the orchard of withered telephone lines. I am drawn, the next morning, to the foggy light of high windows in hope that it will alleviate pain. I'd like to think that another me, in a parallel universe, gets to press his cheek against R.'s thigh and feel her fingers running through what's left of his hair.


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