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Lawrence Bridges



That day again. Fast running to my desk. About a man who closed his store and gave up friends, moved away to work on one word, placing it where it belonged. He shortened it and stretched it. He spelled it backward but time slowed to the world's speed and there was nothing left around him, nothing moved but the sun. It was summer and agreeable, days over by eleven, water, heat, and music. This man, myself, ordered more days like these to spread out as he pleased, haunted by blue days and headaches past, adding to traffic in his blue car, busy at nothing that would change anything, saying the one word over and over until it faded into the past and he woke from a dream of a ten-year-old.

Jeffrey Alfier Matin_Bleu.jpeg
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