• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 05
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in the hand of the man. Can't stop a human from being what it can. All polo shirt and soft focus of the river, pastel climate set to blur into pocket-sized recognition, and bleach, looked over, on the relative's window pane. As long as the buttons are okay, as long as the smooth hue of the recent purchase hasn't been washed away. My feet are useless, my bill toothless. I am made in your image, found nagging like a timed-out elder, waddling like a pregnant commuter, squawking like I'm working for commission and they're about to cut my pay. And you hold me here with my loose hairs, with my stray tuft of chest feather nerve where my wildness all but slipped away. My eye matte as the glue used to preserve. My beak jammed, wax in every vacant part of me, so long have I been propped up, guarded against, in this fashion, so long since our components were at play.