Derek Jon Dickinson



Weathervane

for S.K. Strandlund Wind-scrivener, penning its ongoing revisions, the copper schooner spins upstream (parrying the day’s against-us). Moored to the weathered-tin and pigeon-shit. Scudding clouds; a loosed, rusted arrow. Finger of execution, the blackjack dealer rotates like a revolver—another card? …

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