INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Chris Lord
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PALOMINO LEAVES Elements crushed by a red November wind: Twisted, wild and curled palomino leaves. Dogs tapping with opaque claws these leaves chilled by Canadian air leave yellow footprints in my blood. SOLITUDE Wine's black hips slosh beside a pale, blood-stained carnation. Napkins scattered like poker cards across the kitchen table. An ebony violin guides a blind, arthritic Peruvian jaguar by a heavy chain past the wheezy refrigerator. WEDNESDAY The afternoon sun drags her dirty blond hair across our kitchen table. The late hour, a flock of starlings blown like pepper this way and that. November circles the house in a burning red costume designed to fool death.
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