MIRANDA DONOVAN
as you pass, the moon splashes onto the backs of your calves, legs of moonshine and earth, of serpent spit and corn blood. the soil rises to swallow you but you are moving too fast and the sky too heavy a burden to hold the weight of it caves the vowel buckles the serpent lifts ts head, fli ks its sweet corn silk tongue and the next consonant ignites— a fi e spreading through the fi lds, blazing through the night.
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