by Dalia Davis Flames cooled by blue tones. Rushing foam faces burst into song groovesswinging past stones. A jazz band of water nymphsquell fire arrows aimed for my heart bones.
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Theories About Footprints
by Michael Sandler As I approached he stood haltingly, kyphotic and aged. Perhaps he saw my chest thrust, rodding my back as if to overcome the torque of my own crooking hinge, its rust and abrade. Over appetizers and wine, disquiet ran in background mode while routine smiles and talk…