by Kristina Marie Darling
Our train was the first to leave. My formulation of the
question, a small bird splayed on the tracks. Now the memory
of the memory of a landscape. That sheet of ice holding
everything in place. The felled tree the telephone wires an
entire snow-covered field. The car and its passengers. Yes.
There is an elegance to the way one strikes a match. Line of
smoke against a reflection of the shore, the little sea as it
darkens. Each of the flowers lit as if from the inside.
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