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Ellen Moynihan |
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Vitamins Chatter of teeth in thick, sunset-painted air, mid-winter. Back and forth all day, conversations begun and ended within seconds. A quick check of light reveals the progress of time: time to keep going, time to walk again, time to notice the same mundane. For three days now the carcass of a bird has not been removed from the corner. It remains stretched over the pavement, permanent, exhibition of evidence. All it takes to shake down what remains is a brief incident, run-in of luck against luck, a figure slumped dumb in a doorway, motionless now in the cold, unremarkable in the seething street this evening. Almost Over I awake to find a fresh bruise. It's bloomed on my thigh overnight, like a violent orchid. You, asleep beside me, deep, moist breaths seesawing in and out of your lungs, lips slightly chapped from the endless whir of the fan. We stay still like this, in summer. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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