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Blackstone Street There are people I don’t want to see my blood in. Doors open and behind them nothing is open But sprouts of trees, wood for coffins to load up the man. I am only cold winds bathing; remnants— Ashes of troubles and clothes. If the blood is clean I won’t touch it. The end is never clean, Even how the children remember you. Perhaps I should wear you once, Father, And walk the streets where they killed you. 62 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

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