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Love Poem with Small Town Convulsions

Fritz Ward

Dear Lurid Gospel, while the park/drive-in/motorlodge/bait shop/church/post office/
slaughter-house/airport/museum/diner/confessional became quieter and haunted,
my sister sat on the porch swing smoking something white and marvelously addictive.
Every pain has its Rothko, she declared. I nodded. The creek babbled obscurities back
to us. The faint stars were charged with more impossibility than I cared to count.
Together we watched the leaves shake free from the diseased trees.

Fritz Ward

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