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Sport 38: Winter 2010



Regret is stacked against my wall like a winter's wood. Each night I burn a memory.

I lost my sons' years in a forest.

The sound of the grandfather clock leaks through holes in my slippers. It breaks each moment in two.

The lesser half ticks.

In the interval before each tock I listen for the echo of the axe, the sound of wood chips in the air.