Let someone else find the autumnal sign that tumult is upon us, hanging from the trees' shroud of the riparian zone on another gray day dancing in the howling ice you've hidden in your cheek. The script was written on fire; it was an evening of celebration. We arrived at the stone arbor and planted our roses in wet concrete. We inked our verse into softened porcelain. I displayed my larynx in panes of glass, and Sonia told one of her lively tales. All I find is wires inside and mostly yam circuitry: Carubba yams, West Indian sweet yams, Creole yams dusted black with alluvial soils shoots through raw flesh, browning. I don't want to know this violent mess; the rubber band bodies twisting each other from eyelet to stem. So delicately I begin yam surgery. |
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