Somehow you’re here
in each stroke
guiding my line
to the end—
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Junction
By Tracy Ryan
Fox, you are overwritten. Freeze-frame vision too like a poem. I brake and the children clamor, noses to glass, chill mirror. Languid, askance, at leisure— slow motion that spells disaster—so […]
Dislocation
By Tracy Ryan
Wasp at the top of the house springs warmed, old oven— we've both miscalculated. O art of expectation! Staggery, rag-imped thing. All winter I came up with nothing doing. Dead […]
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