Further down from Ferris Bridges where the blind old gospel baritone dreamed a mirage of eternal mirrors miniature shadows were drawn

by hand upon distant ships at the Little John society. And the city, crepuscular in its arc of light was like a knife in the bone of the mohair thighed crooner with his steel guitar and his 78rpm blues on the Liberty label. His eyes were stained glass, a passage of verbs and arrows and each phrase he swung would multiply like stone.

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