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Elegy for Peter.

The night we drank warm whiskey in our parked car beyond woods now lost to the suburbs I fell in love with you. What waited was the war like a bloody curtain and a righteous moment when the lovely boy's spine was snapped, then the long falling into hell. But lately you've been calling me back through the years of bitter silence to tell me of another river of blood and the highland's howl at dusk of human voices blasted into ecstasy. That night in sweet Lorain we drank so hard and so long we lifted ourselves above the broken place of our hearts, mill fires burning red against the sky. Why is there no end to this unraveling.
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Author:Weigl, Bruce
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
Words:119
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