she is beautiful and so I don't believe that shehas suffered. now old memories chase me in suddensmacking throat-openers, like red orangeson a table, in a blue bowl -- as I am between ruins. like an old woman, I pick themapart, blood stains under my tongue. now, writing, nothing comes to me to be described:… Continue reading poem: bad riddance
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 