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Card PlayersRomare Beardenstriped awnings you crank back to let in the stars in pitch black, frogs and cicadas crickets, the low whine of bats. Roses drip. Floorboards the paint peels on creak as uncles slap down cards. Citronella. Ice tea clinks in tall glasses. Calico dog sniffing under the table cloth. A train in darkness. Straw unravels so slowly you can’t hear |
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Issue #20, May, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.