The full moon trawls for ice behind Sheffield Centre. She likened it to
swimming liquid vinyl, how quiescent bubbles effused solder, how her
shoulders slipped out of place, leaving her staggering breathless
through a ruddy underbrush, maybe even thatched.
I was dreaming when I wrote this. I was interfacing with languaged.
His evasiveness indicates that he has issues with relinquishing control
to others. The trees on Clifton blacken and fan. He dreams this night
about being prostrate before a car.
That night of three shadows point me out.
The same night of Housing Projects from the Seventies.
She trawls a fur over stumps. She drags behind her those fractions of
faces she thought to keep.
--
Lewis LaCook
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