Old House

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The phosphorescent glow of the decaying wood
and
the blanket-thick tendrils of the woebegone house
and
the hot trumpets and torrid rhythms of her convulsive gesticulating hands
--in response to his interrogations
made rebuking words unnecessary.

But there, a succulent plant
and
tremulous, with its contorted stem writhing and rising from the broken cement
and
the leaf, an oblong of green
--he dredged her with somber repentance
and
whisked her into the house…





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