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K AT H RY N S T R I P L I N G B Y E R Jericho’s walls shone not half so bright under Jehovah’s moon as he sees this mountain stand to the west of his idle fields, daring him climb it for what reason he’s never told me straight out, though I know he dreams deer by the multitude wander my sleepless nights, safe within Jericho’s unexplored shadows he tells me not even the Cherokee ever tracked. When he gets hungry for wild meat, he disappears, firing a parting shot into the chicken coop. Soon enough he brings the same story home to my empty pot, how he was led by a golden buck, into the clouds where it bolted clear over the edge of the world and he found himself suddenly light headed, cursing his luck and the creatures that roam as he would, with no reason to turn back the way he had struggled up, clinging to rocks breaking loose from his hold on what little by little comes tumbling down into the valley. The 1980s ❚ 157 ...

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