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« She coulda been a contender. . . | Main | "August Pastoral" (by Laura Orem) »

August 11, 2008


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The streets are quiet in this cell. How odd. Snow falls, blood falls from the shit colored ceiling. Must be the blood of foreigners. They pierce the foreigners with daggers to extract confessions.

We go about our routines, as usual, but we know they are coming and there is nothing we can do. Our skin is bound so tight we are suffocating. We sigh. We gasp. We close our eyes, rely on our faith.

We do.

Baa Baa White Sheep

Carol - thanks for sharing this. Good stuff!

I love this post. We used to have sheep on one of our islands in Maine. When there were thunder storms, they would hide under the porch of this old house there. The only problem--after the storm, they wouldn't turn around and come out again. We had to make sure we rescued them from under the porch every single time. I always did wonder if this was some kind of survival skill gone awry or if this was the mark of extreme stupidity . . .

Thank you, Nin. That's a great story about your sheep. Mine don't seem to mind thunderstorms. In fact, they seem to love to stand out in the rain -- when they come in, they're like walking wet blankets.

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I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later
to the greatness
of Teddy Wilson
"After You've Gone"
on the piano
in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
in the dark

from New and Selected Poems by David Lehman

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This Way Out

by T.P.Winch

Ringfinger was nervous
Pinky terrified
when they learned
that Hand might succumb
to the rule of Thumb.



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