Behind the voice, broken concrete, not steady enough to walk across the road, no longer recognizable, tangled wires, the humming under the roots that never stops, it’s raining outside the light now, pulling in the leaves and the soil, behind the sound of uneasy footsteps, shattered glass, the accordion ripple of something falling, catching, falling. Someone’s murmuring underground in an air pocket, loathe to surface, loathe to witness the scratched light on faces, the clawed apparition that makes its way down the road, skin stretched silver, shedding shadows behind the echoes, the phantom appearance of evening stars.
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Andrea Moorhead
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