Austin Tremblay A Year Winter It was a time in my life when everything came to my fingertips, and any thread connected to the past frayed like the bottom of a thrift store jacket I wore so much it was almost like real love, the light I lost shoved inside a trombone bell, as I walked under trees that sometimes looked like they were weeping and then they were weeping, and it stuck to my sleeves like cockleburs, small as mustard seeds, rondure in my mouth, the hard telling that’s hardly palatable.
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