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HEATHER BRAGER

but you are an architect the unopened box on the front doorstep is slumped over, sopped with rainwater finding its place in the world near the door mat the fan hums steady with an occasional tick your hair squirms beneath the unstable air while the television fakes soundless scenarios if you don‘t really care, why don‘t you look away? you consider life and its string of suspensions crossing and building bridges, you are an engineer calculating balances, waiting to expire you used to burn everything down haphazardly you consider inherent sweetness the softness of your shadow on the wall the things you never finished like the degree in architecture

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SPIRACLE JOURNAL Volume I Issue No. 1  

Re. In. Vent.