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1913issue6online

39 From Plan for a Broken Bowl Document A Dead grass and some lipstick outlining the spot where a tree had fallen. It wasn’t just a spot. The area spread out an influence a news on the body’s flung dalliance. Dense collections of dots on the face of the photograph. A word written in reverse, perverting the seams where the thread, the spiraling wire tells in redundant script, looping in roots and the blades of grass that have lived, stained the page, died and lived again. So with these markings on our faces, intuitions, private matter in a memory or dream. Shadow without an object or a sun, emitting its own light. I have eaten these things I have known their texture on my tongue Inaudible sound as the air feels when moisture and light inseparably soothe the wound made by warbling made by bad song, the chewed up breath

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