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James Finnegan


Muldoon Monument Co.

Through a lighted window I stare into the empty store. This is an odd cemetery of the anonymous and not yet dead, full of headstones with polished unmarked faces, the carved angel held aloft by an Italianate column, an obelisk pointing toward a stucc [...]


pouring like a dark-red wine its lushness is almost sexual, the lover's voice hushed and warm within the ear, that tuft of black hair between her thighs, enough luxury to lose ourselves forever in reveries of realms and sovereignty, the snow-covered [...]