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Thursday, November 29, 2012

My dad kills things for me.


And where I come from, that is love. 

Tonight the Saints play the Falcons,

a pot of venison chili bubbles 

separates, almost ready. Deer meat chili 

I would have called it before I left 

     home. So much to fear so much 

goodness in this world of ours. And what

do you do, except huddle up

close, eat something warm, cry 

over that beyond your control

take joy in what can not matter? 

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