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{dear bear} diana adams Tonight’s thoughts breathe green. Sleep-locked in black satin you do dances that happen only in tranceland. Fictional affairs, foreign guns, each enervated limb dumbed, so close to being a corpse the knife I hold over your head is just an offbeat frequency, a cell-phone on speed dial to Persephone. Lay, wait for bells, let salmon run their river morgue. |
