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Triadelphia, WV, poem by Jay Sizemore

The hotel room seems damp— cold as the West Vir­ginia sky, a cer­tain kind of humid­i­ty left behind in the emp­ty space that light can nev­er fill and that only the nos­trils can inter­pret as mois­ture in the atmos­phere of green car­pet and com­forters. … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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