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Snowbound
by David Slavin
I tell lies.
Tell myself they are little
perfect geometric shapes;
intricate, unique,
they glint like zircons.
Tell myself they are white
as snow on branches
that slump, freighted,
under a lucid sky.
There is a house, set apart,
cut off by fences.
Far from the highway, the place
at the dead end of a rutted path.
Here my lies collect,
gather in drifts,
fill in the potholes,
overtop the rails.
They erase what separates me;
a crisp white sheet on a rotted porch.
Now a blanket that billows up the siding,
obscures the windows,
rises past the eaves,
buries me
where I lie.
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