What good is it if the timer goes off when you’re not listening and burnt chicken sends out cries to the universe of animal spirits roasted on the spit of eager bellies. Feed them sunflowers, proclaims the witch of the west. We dine on a red-checked tablecloth, mouths too busy munching to talk, bodies too spent from hidden affairs to offer the usual convivialities.

butternut clouds
the wind knocks down
a spent wave

Pris Campbell


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