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Irene was a nasty dream. Waking
up with colors
in my eyes, watching her
falling down inside
my mouth. I was
covering my ears flat
as possible. The rusty wagon dripping old
and wet, it slowed—

My hurricane is me—
I could not know. My flashlight told
me that. Fueling myself to
push back into normal,
I could convince myself
that was
a nasty dream

Rainer Pasca
Rainer Pasca, 14
Bay Shore, NY