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Interveiw With Winter
July 31, 2012
He sulks in the sunlight,
and breathes smoke in my face.
Metal sticks to his skin,
so I told him to eat
with his hands.
His voice is not pleasant.
High and wailing he runs
it through my tree like a
fine toothed comb, it leaves the
branches bare.
He told me once he killed
someone with his bare hands.
“It was an accident”
he admitted softly.
I doubt it.
© Nathaniel C., Marblehead, MA
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