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The ghosts are good-looking. I sigh inside myself and know their answers. I draw figures on the blackboard. My eye is sharp and companies come to check me out. I am rewarded with bags of glossy food. Though they are dying, the grownups are good-looking. They need butter. They need sublime cuts of meat. I can’t keep up. My delicate fingers are caught. I suck on blood and become strong. I can lift ships and exotic cargo. I see myself and my odd-ball citizens pitching back and forth. They are frantic to communicate. I am plastered against the screen. People are like true animals migrating. Leaving trellises and bad children and paper sacks of perfect sugar. I don’t want to be associated. My torpor
is required again and again. I go to exhibitions and cry
aloud for the paleontologist’s renderings. The little girl’s
feet. They are radioactive and I was young. I saw her pitching back and forth. I was in trouble. I spent so much money. |
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