Why am I sweating it out here?
Sister is trekking Alaska,
roaming glacial scree...

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whle her husband hooks the pink
of a dwindling salmon run,
within sight of Denali.

I awake to the sun sliding along slats of Venetian blinds, feeling for an entrance into the room with a single combustible eye. Soon I'll hear Mother's aluminum cane tapping, then, "Joel, where are you?" And I'll think, "Where can I be?"

Her eyesight almost gone, this art of Perspective, is of that excellency, and may be led, to the certifying, and executing of such things, as no man would easily believe she attributes her poor hearing to the condition of her eyes.

   What secrets are hidden behind the dazzle
of the sun's gaze?

 

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