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1913issue6online

96 Little Hunter Satyr Throws Her Phone Into the Bristle-Grass (Epilogue) The satyr play goes back to something more primitive than a tragedy or comedy. Phallic props, a zero lake, a hogged wineskin, a flimflam snowjob. All lovers like heists. A punch in slow motion is not a real punch. In the grassland, near drums of beer, we rake the bristle grass to the tune of the lost-ringing cell phone. The highway, a dry cicada noise messing with our heart-heads. I roam the given landscape in a Frenchman’s peephole. The nude one, the hairless one, dying in the grasses. New Romance, Vermont. Fate can’t control all that’s brought to ruin -Catherine Theis

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