| Robert Lee Jackson |
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| Mr. Redenbach Across the red sea we fish from an aluminum boat; trolling for the weak lip trout that must be caught gently or they break and are gone. The low waves of the morning scuff the flat bottom and the air cuts our jackets to tell us we werent listening. Now a blue collectors booklet of aging pennies lies upright on a wicker shelf at the home, next to where we once embarked. The water only seemed to part for the walls of a hull and the light that overflowed from the black glass of space. |
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