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on the dented fender of a Chevy pick-up, Dried blood, flakes, swirls, and catches on a frosted web of glass, strung across the windshield. A glossy film shadows my brother's eyes, a flashback of ice spitting at the car, thunders against his skull. Black against the torrent of white, he stumbles to my grave, and plants three crimson roses in the snow. Mikel Hanson (hmikel@uswest.net) |
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