In the ruins of the earth twelve hundred saints are biding their time—taking alms from the smoke of gray dawns. The tarantula eats the
Sheet metal sun, tally of dead leaves, dogs, a rabbit darting into a slot between wood pile n’ pickets. Little sister tile saw, little
1. Bond’s in the lake with a henchman, and I’m a child again in that crowded pool in the grip of a drowning girl.
Eyes closed, I inhale, I imagine:
a fine needle in the arm opens your chest,
raises you to a high pitch,
sets you humming all night.
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