LAUREN CAMP, 3 P.M.
Quantum Entanglement Shelter moves along with the ravens who cap the trees all black and in copies. We agree that a vulgar December was made from our boots. I see god isn’t at war in the middle of this exhausted place, not so long as we fill it with multiple pieces of our ongoing fiction. What I want most to remember is the calm of the mules undressed to the grass that keeps growing. Let this become my lasting investigation of this reduced moment. I’ll put in my magic square all the impossible numbers, the melting point of ice and have you heard the Brunt Ice Shelf is broken? What isn’t broken? Even Wednesday or people. I will come to you with my sentences and as many commas as I can wedge to each thought: myself and you and supplicant. Myself and the hinges and my negative enthusiasm, thirsty and lunatic. Can I prove the great grief is more than gathering suggestions? I’ve been told there are four solutions to worry. That’s what I’ll do with the hours of today. See the empty window as how I admire the emptiness best. What happens each time is the dusk, a currency I know how to spend. The weight of the clocks and each circumference of sky. Three trees make a limit. Here is our area and perimeter. I stay wrapped in small sweaters on this property cut through the mountains. The absence of road.
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