Fire & IceLucy Biederman
Close the windows; coincidence is dripping in. It covers the town in a blanket of significance. Under pens, intentions ripen. If there’s something I’m not supposed to see, please, please, I don’t want to see it. The porridge boils on the stove, hearkening back. This is the end, not the man-starred, bird-streaked, valor-fed, bad-breath, windswept beginning. Across the land, the land on which we stand grows old. The porridge boils on the stove, hearkening back.
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