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Triptych: Year with Three Towers January Their ashed cigarette tips leave stormed murals on the sidewalk: willow boughs reading last rites over a river’s whitecapped flesh wounds. Murals left to scatter, ash to blow away— Jewish Jesus, come back; it’s time. The couple shares smokes—carcasses drip dry in the streets as the snow melts. Take time and twist it between your fingers until it disintegrates. If only they were claymation, the cracks in their spines would be visible. Their irises would spill shredded from their eyes.

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