I believe in steep drop-offs, thunderstorms across the lake in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools, the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic, used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons or red wine, abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves, gravel roads that end...The rattler escaping the cold hose, the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot. J. Harrison
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