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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