INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Shutta Crum
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I TOUCH THE PAGES HERE AND THERE The sun is fading, the sky now that grayish blue with specks of sunset resting upon an impending night. The last of your poems are still left to read and I hesitate, knowing that when finished your memories will no longer weave through my thoughts. I touch the pages here and there as if the words will sink into my veins like rain into brown and yellow roots and erase the silence of my darkness. Night has drifted across the room. I wait, listen, close my eyes and remember the sound of my own breathing. I cry for all the poems I never wrote. And for the ones you have. Karyn M. Wolven, Biscayne Park, Florida
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