Bupleurum Wandering ChamberAnna Maria Hong
In the chamber of the wanderers, I was fourth in line. Between the vial and the snow and the boot-print in the snow. Smart, how they placed me in the double-walled chamber. Smart, how this wood marks nothing like privacy. Face in the cradle, I awake from a fallow dream. Once was butcher paper waxing aqueous rhythm. Someone sunk a hole where my face should have been. Meanwhile in the chamber, boot-steps shuffle in. Young doctor from Guangdong pulls rods from my back. Shuts them in a red can labeled liberation. His hands, two valves siphoning my bliss. Once again, I shall drool empathically supine. In the wandering of the chamber at the stroke of the sign.
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