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ISSUE:  Winter 2008

Water plays its cards. You
will go under,
but this is privileged

information. Your eyes frozen
in the lake glitter
like sin. Mornings I wake

wanting to descend
and possess you, to be captured
and strip-searched

until nothing is left
to be accepted or understood
but pure light

sliced thin as a host.
I call the lake
home and never go back,

mistress of paradox.
I enter the closest thing
to a dark wood.


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