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In the city I made small eyes at the gods leering from the corners of buildings. Golden halosand mosaics — I tried to sing, write to them. A matter of …
Writing is shadow. Tear it from the heel. Sow it back, Wendy, darling. We, the flowers, bend our heads to stories, tomes and Hammurabi for nutrients — …
Tell me a story of young and wild and free. An imaginary nation splayed upon the seas. Start with cataclysm, then the eagle, then repeat. I guess we st…
It’s better in black and white. Not old, necessarily. Just the shades. Nearly intricate. All senses come together towards meaning. A colorblind boy, a …
Pink sun. Pink Olympics. Most still sleep, but not Cerberus,more leash than teeth. This is the golden hour for robed couples to double dutch at least t…
We met our own fragile. There, a man with melon-colored toenails was on the run from something. He was a father, mostly, and a fright. Pointed a finger…
The Thing About a Forest The Word for Rain is Acceptance in Pine Spring and Awe Emerson Stood Outside So Long, Ivy Grew Up His Ankles
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