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Stranded here now forever, the pale, leafless trees
shake with justifiable paranoia. I too wonder

what calamity comes next and how she can dismiss it
from her mind and wash her stockings in the sink.

Day by day, the cemetery moves closer to the black road,
headlights closer and closer to my back bumper

till they fill the mirror with casually muttered threats,
and as it must, the sky, though patched in places,

presses down, aslant and narrowly obsessed.


by Howie Good

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