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Feb 2015

this paper is cold underneath my fingertips
and i'm shifting thoughts like puzzle pieces.

so many writers have commented on sunlight slanting
curling around motes of dust.
thousands of similar phrases:
the flat gray of mid-january mornings,
love, hips, the night sky,

who knows how to articulate
the feeling of being a high school senior
feet anchored in waterproof boots
surrounded by a clogging,


breathe and you fog up the glass
four flat tires--
a lit up exclamation point on the dash.
let's pull off the road
route 9, 10, 11,
numbers, letters
signs bent by the plow,
and the pavement's salted
and the trees chilled quiet
wow, look here--
a seedy gas station
and an out of order pump.

just paint me a picture of a graham ******* trail.

"you know
sometimes when i'm walking back from lunch
and its windy
i like closing my eyes
and stretching my arms out
and pretending i'm somewhere else
preferably a place with less buildings
and more trees"*

                                                        ­                       *"well said.
                                                           ­                     if that isn't a story
                                                           ­                     then i don't know what is."
rachel g
Written by
rachel g  portland, maine
(portland, maine)   
   Short and Thomas McEnaney
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