The houses seem to be made of something strange, like tin. Shops that should be open are closed and dark. The ground is unsteady, cold slush. You think you are lost, even try to get lost but a map of the city is embedded in your brain, so just as you say you don't recognize something, you do. We're on Elmwood Avenue, aren’t we. We're near the place we went that time.
Jessy Randall Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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