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August 29, 2021 / barton smock


city 130

One parent is grief and one is touch. Years pass without a thunderstorm being put to sleep. A son moves into his body to bathe. He scratches his own arm and tries to look at his eyes. His thumbs hurt and we tell him a picture has just been snapped inside the closest museum of the suddenly sick. Because there is only a second time for everything, I thought you knew we were here. Touch is teaching hand the history of again. It's grief's turn to be grief.

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