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The hurricane’s convulsive torrent

traps me in this red convertible,

top down,

rain sluicing in,

rising to my chin

and I want to open the door—

escape, like a darting fish—

but my sodden hands,

terror stricken,

are glued to the invisible

steering wheel. 


Red Google Convertible


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B r a d   R o s e

Democracy of Secrets



the poems


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