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The Shape of Things Confounds Judith Quaempts Every day you look for your wife. Every day you ask when she’s coming. She doesn’t know I’m here, you cry. How will she know where to find me? The rooms in your brain betray you. Walls move. Doors dissolve. I’m light as air, you say. Look, I can float. On good days you know Your mind is going, Know you wife is dead. Kill me, you say then. Please. 


Page 84 | The Paragon Journal

Profile for The Paragon Press

The Paragon Journal - Issue Ten  

The Paragon Journal is an online literary journal that specializes in helping younger authors find their way in the literary world.

The Paragon Journal - Issue Ten  

The Paragon Journal is an online literary journal that specializes in helping younger authors find their way in the literary world.

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