[Response to: I say: is it this already]

Those awful necks, to exist they must have been sorry. Numbly they circled the shoulders, in conversation with past crimes, their underlying exhibitions. I drove a pickup to the edge of the yard, saw them distorting the jawbone like a partially crushed cricket distorts its knees, and made for the line of the fence. The beams would spell like the limbs of some specific tree the sounds of the sculptor. Confined to up and down, whether we knew it or didn’t, the show we preferred making represented in verse the office of our points of departure. It wasn’t far, no, and the necks ruled there too, over the growing.


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