Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
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When the highway came, the houses didn’t know enough to be afraid. Leeway and ease, night comes through the gutters loose as fever. I don’t believe there is an answer, honeysuckle blooming the creek gut. There are tunnels leading up from the river, dug before the war. Torch ends grating in their cups, history averting into the cellars of abolitionists. This is not what I mean to say to you.
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