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Trying to cope with his grief, Hutch reflects on his lost love.
Special thanks to M H E Priest for transferring this poem.
When I look up
I see a blinding light
That becomes your blonde hair
My heart pounds
A three beat measure: “Gil-li-an”
Harder than a coronary
It is fear —
Raw, rookie-type terror.
That I will get shot down here.
I hear a sound:
Is that a “pop” of a pistol
Or red balloons bursting?
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