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Contents Page: December 31, 2010, vol 6 no 4

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G.A. Scheinoha



Here in this alley, a world in itself away from downtown, where sound is muted, the horns and rumble of traffic distant as memory, life is lived only in a canyon; between brick walls, a ceiling of sky blue enough to hurt, a smoke stack juts upward, a finger thrust squarely into the mind’s eye.

Puff of smoke rises
From factory chimney; swift
Flight of startled crows.

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