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Grin

by Grace C. Bennett What would it sound like, parted to sound? This is a dim bar in the gut of London. The moon is wrinkled on the water. Your striped red socks don’t match this boring atmosphere, I think it said             Come sit across the table and tell…

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Flèches

by Grace C. Bennett To walk Parisian streets is to Sail with Vitus Bering, Rum casks loosed atop boards Stained with salt within vicious Blows of sick and yellowed sea, Pacific to Arctic an ill to poisoned freedom; If only memory In this case Were an exaggeration. The undulant expanse…

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