Cartographies (Pins)
Stacey Tran

That red bird we share in our mouths. Its feathers picket and gather, turn and shift. Brakes lift out of our mouths and fall through the dogtrees. It is strange to be alone. What ever dream I dealt with last night is still coated thick like wool beneath my eyelids, tonguing and closing like fists. Who shot the moon? The length of the past in shadows bleeds from the open crumb of her side. Even a whole world of flesh cannot keep up with the drop of nine pins.

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