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 cafÃ©, either wayâ€¦ & Iâ€™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 Iâ€™m feeling safe now & thatâ€™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 somethingâ€”or reverb, catalog guitars, jangly single-pickup misanthropy, a cream & coffeeâ€” & I left the bird dying fast under a mechanicâ€™s bushes.
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