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KUSHAL PODDAR

Icebox, Sigh About today‘s choices the icebox exhales a sigh. Or about my mother‘s medicines. The cat found a moth. Winter breathe it out, blue. I unclasped the lid; hear the icebox. Water the fish for restoring their edibility. Hear the spaces between the fillets puff out a white noise. The doors become lean again. You ask, Who Enters, from your laryngeal cave. I hear the answer too, hisses through your puncture.

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SPIRACLE JOURNAL Volume I Issue No. 1  

Re. In. Vent.

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