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Her Father’s Critique by Steven L. Peck
She painted herself into the landscape. On a canvas she had magicked from deep-self, April sunlight streamed from the clouds in spectacular, uncanny, rays— immaterial matter, soul stuff made flesh....
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Woinshet by Sarah Dunster
Bud of the vine, you came to me. They named you Woinshet. Let me see your hand; it is a sweet soft shadow on mine. You brown ibex, leaping; your dark eyes will laugh and roll to the side when a...
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