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by Joe Ducato


My crime comes back when the world is still; when she’s lying next to me, quiet as snow; when darkness pounds my brain; when my hands feel numb, sleep won’t come and the mouse inside my wall curses its blindness.

A train is rolling somewhere.  It stretches to the end of the Earth then rises and circles the moon endlessly.

Behind the drone of steel wheels I hear a moan; a howl really. 

A wounded animal?  Anger?  Insanity?  

When I close my eyes, I still see.  That’s my sentence.  My hands tremble.  I pray.

Lives in Utica, New York.  Has had work published in Change Seven, The Avalon Literary Review,  Lost Lake Folk Opera among others.

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