Storm WindowMary Ruefle
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She sat writing little poems of mist. And he in an armchair, reading blood-red leather novels. Their three-legged white cat wandering between them. Twenty-four champagne glasses sparkling on the shelf. Never a one to be broken. And two stone dogs on either side of the driveway. For these reasons they have gone on precisely, undetected, for centuries. |
Return to Issue Four.