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This poem is taken from PN Review 239, Volume 44 Number 3, January - February 2018.

Remembers
Last Day at Cy’s House
John Gallas
It is always transitory. The vacation
was a kind of cloister. We ate blueberries
in the back of the van. Every day there were average
clouds and people continually left with their coats on.

Surely this dark store is mine however wished-for.
Able to look back the newspaper requires monotony
like a small man in red suspenders, recently laid out.
Anyway tell me that you didn’t mind.
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