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47 FUCK-ME BOOTS Fleeing the hurricane, it vaulted the porch, then launched itself into the house where I lost it, as it second-staged over the landing and into her closet, and found sanctuary in her black fuck-me boots. How many days later, poor brownie, stale mold-smelling mousy corpse that I nosed, then pulled from the left toe, taffied flat as my trough, its slab, did it slide back into a hole in the ground by the parking lot she’ll cross in six months or so in those black boots, crushing the snow into slush as she jangles her keys eyes the skyline whistles her car door open hotfoots it north. ...

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