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crane

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October 2013, vol 9, no 3

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Mary Dawson


The Goldfish Bowl

Sometimes I can't even remember the feel of her hand, the smell of her hair nor the sound of her voice. I sometimes ask myself if she ever existed. Then before my eyes I see her, smaller. I'm sure it must be her. Until, a doctor confuses me and tells me, it's me.

In the pond
Gold fish
sometimes silver




crane