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Dear City,

Cindy St. John

The birds here are fucking crazy. First, I need a truck, then a straw hat, then to turn off the electricity, then the strength to turn off the electricity. In this country I go most places by hand-drawn map, I forget my skin but the heat remembers and will make me remember in mid-afternoon lights arms fire unable to distinguish inside from outside cooks off metal trucks, concrete, dirt roads. I absorb what I can and the rest waves in front of me like the sun is not a simile not a space not yellow some other horizontal color. Here is where America shows its history to itself. Here is the putty shape inside me sealed one said peanut butter one said mustard. To a body anything can happen, like a brick.

Cindy St. John

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