from Live from the Woodley Park Marriott, Washington, DCRyan Flaherty
I dip my fingers in my face. Corposants, magnisonant: to sing now would ruin the sauce. I keep phoning lack, I can’t lick my skin fast enough. We are blood, not atmosphere. Perhaps I should have said this earlier: it means nothing more than the flora and fauna it sustains, the few square inches of body drifting along as an edge, ears flooding clear and carried, fingers trailing torrents, a head sometimes indistinct from the waters.
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