Here

Prairie Fire - - MARK SANDERS - MARK SAN­DERS

Here. Let me sweep your porch free of leaves, send them off like the brats who haunt the neigh­bour­hood, their par­ents plain­tive in old an­guish, for­get­ful.

Here, let me give you some com­fort, like a blan­ket across your lap, the chair hol­low and soft. I will tell you what you want to hear. It is what you need—so many bit­ter pills to swal­low

I may at least give you this minute sweet­ness.

Here, sugar. Coat the walls of the house in bright­ness so the sun goes blind. So heaven’s darkness finds an av­enue it may drive at leisure, re­vis­it­ing all the favourite haunts, map­ping des­ti­na­tions. We have time. We have yet to ar­rive.

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