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Jan 152014
 

by Connor Blacksher

 

Somewhere, there is a little girl,

building a snowman with a cold left hand.

Every time she touches the rough, frozen parts, she is reminded of

Hand-stitched stars and snowflakes 

On faded black synthetic fabric.

It is just lays there

Like a dirty, insulated snake skin peeling of her hand

on the ground. 

A spider

Stranded in a sea of linoleum: 

Ghosts of footprints

Phantoms

Continuing past this enigma. 

No one stopped to pick it up

To give it back to the little girl

In her front yard

Blowing into her cupped hands

Propelling imaginary miniature frozen windmills