It never stops.

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"she did it," my brother accused
his finger pointing at my sister.
glass lay in chunks on the kitchen tiles
jam smeared the counter tops
and smoke oozed from the oven.
I said nothing then.
at least I was not in trouble.
but now I stand still
in the sour winter breeze;
the little girl I could not save.
"she did it," my brother says
his hands on her gravestone.

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