Issue 7: December 2006.
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Home > Issue 7: December 2006 > Poetry
Trump
by Shya Scanlon
I’ve got something beautiful I want to show you, but. There’s a subtle
falling away from, a rubbed undoing you’re guilty of. There’s a miss.
Don’t ask me how I know. Don’t ask unless you’re wearing good shoes.
We were so young together! Do you remember how that wind spread fire
through the trees? You thought a breath could blow it out. Do you
remember when the sun went down on you? I watched the whole thing
through a pinhole in your pocket, and still went blind.
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