Everything EverythingDean Gorman
her whole weight in my hand over the fresh pavement, syrup coming out her beak. Too old or too young, I say later at the café, either way… & I’m thinking of my own broken neck & speech ripped-out, scalding bus fender in the sun. Have I been loved, can it be enough? & where are my books now, what good are they on their sides like me, spines cracked? Look, if I’m feeling safe now & that’s unattractive, sorry. I killed her with my bike. And all I could think of after my breath were the poets, then WCS volunteers with dysentery or parasites maybe somewhere trying to save something—or reverb, catalog guitars, jangly single-pickup misanthropy, a cream & coffee— & I left the bird dying fast under a mechanic’s bushes.
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