Jan/Feb 2015

e c l e c t i c a   m i s c e l l a n y


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The hard clop of heels on the floor above sounds like the shoed hooves of horses on cobblestone, the swish of jeans swiping leg against leg like the shush of shorn sheep rubbing against each other as they seek to pass unobserved through Bradford-on-Avon. Hours of this late night, I have listened to our neighbors parading through the common square of their apartment, waiting for one bleat, one neigh, one moaning moo.
Jeff Burt


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