Sing, sing, its bronze plumage bared for the first audience that will listen. Be it trees. Be it reed beds. Be it wind through the moorlands which it has been mimicking. It is a mutable thing...
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We use other words for what we mean, and we weaponize the alphabet in both our languages. I’ve come here just to make you try to get rid of me again. I’ve come to make these people cry...
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I know enough discarded parts, landfills of hips and thighs enough
to call it contagious, to lose the vision of women, communities of fleshy girls with bony hearts, bony girls with fleshy hearts, enough to blanket the world twice...
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