From Issue 11: Each Wounded Thought Begins to Dance Almost Painlessly

Each Wounded Thought Begins to Dance Almost Painlessly Chris Hutchinson   East of here, groves of magnolia Shade troves of rust-darkened auto parts. No one walks anymore. The sun stains the horizon with an iodine tincture before dusk Seals the wound shut. No one reads Henry David Thoreau. The unmistakably sparrow-headed Prince of Hell Dons…

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