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ISSUE:  Autumn 1978

The spirit sweats—the horizon’s tobacco tinged—like thought. Windmills image a fishing village: boats and weathered nets.

The village of frozen windmills hovers like a motionless harbor. All smells of a weary stasis: nothing, nothing stirs.

The hours skip past like stones, ricochet across the shallows, not drowning, keeping afloat, tobacco tinged—like thought.


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