Winter 2003 • Vol. XXV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2003 |

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He'd just switched off the overhead light and stretched out Full-length on the sofa. An open window. A shade between The rose and ochres of a long twilight in mid-September Swamped the outlying, mottling sands freaked with patches Of pampas grass. Not a breath of wind, not a sound anywhere For the time he took to take his shower and lie down for a nap Before dinner. It's odd how he recalls it all so clearly still, That guttering hour in summer fifteen years ago, the quiet end Of a travel day: A plastic cup of orange peels. An empty half- Bottle of some sweet wine he'd found in the hotel mini-bar. And he remembers too a car horn followed by the skid Of tires, then laughter and voices spilling out from the lobbyInto a parking lot beyond.            And then a fight broke out. He must've fallen asleep by then, for the garbled stream of insults Seemed channeled through the margins of his consciousness: Two men, he imagined, around whom others formed The cordon of a

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Ilium

By Sherod Santos

He'd just switched off the overhead light and stretched out Full-length on the sofa. An open window. A shade between The rose and ochres of a long twilight in mid-September […]

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