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by Stephen Sandy

There would be an end to it. The road a slick
dissolving in windy snow, unreeling over

the nothingfields of Minnesota. Easy
to whack a person on because—tonight

where could he hide, after the car one-eightied
in a drift, prisms of snow going red? And he

a sweet guy after all, mouthing snow
like hope, pleading, just because he had

witnessed wrongful death. Well, isn’t any
death wrongful in this world of buds?


Stephen Sandy’s most recent book is Surface Impressions, A Poem (Louisiana State University, 2002). The poems here will appear in his next collection, Weather Permitting (2004). (5/03)

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