We leave them behind us all the time, don't we?
Their tender spirit bodies taking hold
in the minds of others—
even those whom we have long forgotten—
now free to flit like headlights
across the shades drawn shut against the light
of other peoples' windows at night
the sound of rain washing them
over and over and us not missing
them at all, not missing a wink
asleep in some other room
entirely alone we think
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Issue 71
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Editor's Note
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POETRY
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FICTION
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ESSAY