Anne the slag

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The sky is wide, the day endless. She pictures the man, bright within. We are lonely and the only thing that will save us is a poem. Flurries dance on the wind in spun madness. We are both smart enough not to get hit by the house. She puts her hands in his flannel pockets and follows. We are black winds that once took the night someplace sexy but now just stir themselves darker still and settle.

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