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July 2, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 91

An ambulance from dogcatcher’s dream puts the hurt on a flickering cornfield. Past small pockets of boxcutting amnesiacs go the bicycle legs of the non-born. Without hell, our cellar is a mirror collecting all that thunder can hear. Never done, I saw yesterday what a swimmer looks like so close to uncovering god's one-eared suicide and made a ghost out of anything except a ghost.

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