from Live from the Woodley Park Marriott, Washington, DCRyan Flaherty
Wickily days aburn with a rumorous delight. Days shaking one’s finger until it feels fat like a sausage. The various by way of the vague. The wild success of a nothing doing day. Four blocks up Connecticut over the Cleveland Bridge is the zoo: if you imagine the animals are happily caged it is easier to be one. I can’t keep enough open to harm, the mind woodens. Shakespeare’s Thought kills me that I am not thought. All answers are flesh. A working title of “Accounting in the Key of Dusk:” leaves blowing nocturnes in a window, a pocket of dark air to breathe, and its tiny penumbra: the sometimes light parsed from dark—toll and ring and after-ring— this odd, good fit for the falling through.
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