myths about lovers, recollected texts, myriad birth rights, fleshy grins, bloody arms and necks and speaking lint. I wish this were a drum. The title says everyone’s better now: birds flew the coup, snakes the bed, monstrous elegy to spiderwebs. I have this bone to pick out my teeth. A strong inclination to sieve dust through cloth, whatever sooty morsels we remain they clump into charcoal hand-wringing and meta static fathoming of pain. It’s never over until it ends.
Will H. Holland
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