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Fairing (for Scott Holstad) Some might say it's a shame, but, I think it's more like a curse, and maybe, so does he. But, then again, it's he who carries a storm in his head, carries wind, carries rain, carries the thought that every breath is a dangerous decision. I have imagined him as fibrotic with rope- like scars and a heart shaped like a fist. A mouth like a wet sea. I can not help him, but dreamed that I did. Wind isn't harmful, I said, although it is indifferent and seems to blow harder on some more than others. And rain only falls to impale. It isn't rude, but relentless and reckless and cold. In my dream he listened than looked away, left, heading skyward into the soft belly of the moon where he fixed himself firmly under its skin, where he fixed himself firmly and grinned.
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