dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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Shut down the music as distraction; bring on silence for accompaniment. Such is the air of winter: spare, luminous, not fallow, but dormant, which given the nudge of elbow connected to nub of pen scratches ephemeral marks deep into the ice of the century. Suddenly seeing & hearing are one. Blood marks Time. Eyes become wings touching air, carefully enough to fly.




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