The Flat Hand of Winter
by Jude Goodwin
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A passing neighbour waves his white hand as if lifting a fish. The roadways are thick with its scales and shine beneath a gutterless moon. The windows weep and freeze, weep and freeze. Even the cottonwoods hiss as they rise from the river ice, scrape the ceiling of night with their brittle combs. November sulks in a dark room with the TV flickering. December is drinking scotch and rubs his lips with rough fingers. |
 Patricia Wallace Jones |
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