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Love Letter with Four Eyes and an Affinity for Lace

Fritz Ward

Dear Looking Glass, the jury box had been swabbed with bleach. Everyone wore wire-rimmed glasses and sipped tap water before wetting their cheeks. Between the in-convenience store and the stand, you turned me inside out inside you. I confess: I only wanted exhibit T and A that day. And you? Fuck the witnesses, you once said. Yes sir, she was a blouse without a lieutenant—my moist hands resting on his hard book—Yes, but just that iris—no others. What began with a threshing, ended in a puddle semi-conducting the sky. We stood still. We shook. I testified to what remained of you.

Fritz Ward

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