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|  GUNSHOT

 
  1. He falls without grace, plummets. A body sack of wet sand hurtles to a pervasive blankness. The moon is a hawks claw that grips nothing, and he wakes out of the trance too late, now Ive done it. Already falling. A hand held out at the bottom, nine


from new poems
TBD
2009
Copyright © Jim Slominski