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THE SEXTON
A parish groundskeeper has spent years composing an anthology of poems for the local dead--a private undertaking, until he sends his crew on reconnaissance of the living.
Lest you find me obnoxious or spiteful, lest you leave before this is done, there on the wind blew my song, too. It whipped past The Lighthouse and along the train tracks, a banshee’s falsetto--that reckoning hum from the interstate, artery to a world larger than these precincts and where death stalked all at once.
​Chad Willenborg
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