Love Poem with Small Town ConvulsionsFritz 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.
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