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POETRY by Jeff Grundy

NOVEMBER 2008: POETRY by Jeff Grundy Table The pen in my hand writes red, not quite blood. If I have a soul, it might be like this, thin, wet, smelling of copper and iron. Down on Riley Street, the Baptist workers have drained, cleaned, and sanitized every flooded basement. They accepted no money and didn't preach to anyone, knowing that every touch leaves a trace anyway. If every slide along the banisters of lust and gravity is both transient and…
Jeff Gundy
October 31, 2014