A slow return, books burning in the back field, stars caught in the white pine, there isn’t a clear space now, walking deliberately across the rocks, salt staining, burning, it isn’t a matter of coagulation or cohesion, a slow process of absorption, walking more quickly on the pine needles, stars glowing, smoke thicker and thicker, eyes sting from the speed of the fires, the controversy surrounding the stars catches in the throat, scrapes the lining and renders further speech impossible.
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Andrea Moorhead
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