• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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There’s a woman who

runs like silk
worms lit from within
clasped jars honey
smeared on bark
luring bears
to my wedding
vows clean as water
colour bleeding everywhere
gauzed antiseptic
tanks heaving toward war zones
in my pocket
pegs scattered
bird seed
in an empty tube
fat starlings pray
for rain
slicks the driveway
but she doesn’t fall
into metal
clasps pooled in bronze
beaches hidden behind hoarding
newspapers from when she was
young saplings glimmer
of spilled rose paint
from her shed
like snakes
in autumn