After MeatAlison Stine
We eat nothing now the source is burning. The flanks of English cows are black and curved as though to spread desire. Newspapers show them dead on backs, limb-stiff, bellies tight with late-year calves, the skulls like chalk explosions, cast against sky, a black scrim behind which farmers soak gas. Once the curtain lifted; on the smoky low stage, you saw women divide themselves as though cut down by blades. Between the lighted, shearing legs: the entrance wound, a burst of red. How is there any want left in the world? Your hand's on my breast, desirous, becoming a different animal.
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