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at the apex of winter, you’ve forgotten your

coat by the door.  the woman in

blue takes quick small

steps out of your reach until

your feet ae bleeding.  you try to explain

to her about the war in spain, how it

is being won by fascists, but she is

immune from your screams.  you

ignore the calls for hot cider and

wool scarves.  each flake in your

eyes burns you, but Catyluna still

burns and the blue figure in the near distance

moves to the far distant, at

the cusp of the horizon.

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