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Treasures Christopher Barnes Newcastle |
Treasures After receiving the highwayman’s map the man sidesaddled on the back of Brenda the donkey (with the unfeasibly long, long, silver eyelashes) cried “Illych.” “A fortune,” he sighed spyglassing for a purse. Exposed to yardstick days, foot rule hours, Death Valley, they found a nest egg wrapped in Kleenex. Joy’s tears were grit-scrubbed. They’d lost North over luckless sand-creep in holes of shifting sky, horizon swirling sands of time. [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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