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July 1, 2012, vol 8, no 2

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Harriot West


Their conversation has a slightly practiced air—her story about the juniper at the end of her driveway, no longer a tree but the perfect exclamation mark, his parable, perfected over time, about three kinds of love, (or is it three kinds of sex), their affair, a primer of tales told and edited in the retelling, enchanting until one of them wearies of a misplaced modifier or an unnecessary adverb as this moment too transforms itself into anecdote.

spinning, spinning
the pinwheel's colors