Right Hand Pointing



	Laura Navratil
	Underfog

	The ground has not yet frozen this year’s end and yet the grass cracks underfoot easily as a bone. Its music is unfallen. Sun sets orange on the unquoted remnant. The man will be happy in California. He is coastlike, rocky and abrupt unsheltered from the ripped seam of wind. Unwritten. Once I thought things came back to haunt. Truly, they leave.	next main page front of this issue




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