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Who Buried the Baby
The wind blew with such direct force that the porch swing rode up sideways and wrenched back, overshooting its normal setting several times a minute, and my great-aunt Stacy was worried. She waited for a pause and then rushed to unhook it. The swing fell, and the chain smacked her ankle in its horrible funny-bone…
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This I Call Home
Terrace Storms are inconsequential. A terrace always reverts, loyal subject, to the sun. Hallway A tunnel of betweenness. Here anything can bed anything. Back Fence I only wish it were higher. Don’t watch me. Front Porch Goddamn Astroturf, who’s it trying to fool? The one lone step, a mendicant slab— ungenerous to a fault, fatal…
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Today’s Visibility
I don’t know what I was thinking taking us to the Museum of Surgery but we left very glad of anesthetic and the sky entirely uncut-open. Later, it was nearly impossible to see the haystacks because it turned out we were in the Museum of Museum Guards. One woman was eight feet tall, her head…
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Novel Excerpt
From Book of the Cranberry Islands, Chapter 14, The Burial of The Jellyfish; Return of Champlain to the Outer Waters, Section 1 The moon cracks the glass, rising in pure altimeter like a ghost. A ghost rises, its phosphor is the moon. In the center of myself: a stream, travelling neither toward nor away from…