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MA RT Y M CCONNELL

not mentioning tulips the sky is full of rock salt. my shoes, O‘‡8Yb²µ8u8€µ½½}b²8€¢Н²€‡ can fuck off like her cousins the wind 8Y €µbË¢bbYµ‘Šbu‘‘YbɵV not all this business of polyps, massive cardiac infarctions, anemones threaded through the old quarry, all the stones Šb½€‘€u8u8€½}8½‘½}€uoÊbµYb8½}¢ }b²bÉb8²b€½²8noO¢}b²bÉb8²b8½½}bYb‡€V here at the visitation, asking the same mayonnaise and white-bread questions as if the graveyard Éb²b8F‡‘Éoµ}u8²YbV8½²8Š‘‡€bn‘²½}b²8½µ to leap on, just some gutted neighborhood passed on the way to somewhere good.

M A RT Y M CCO N N E L L

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CQ 62.3 Winter 2012  

Prose, poetry, art, reviews

CQ 62.3 Winter 2012  

Prose, poetry, art, reviews

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