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Poem: Paper Masks 

Fingers
digits and
beats
all working
again
at a familiar speed
in an unknown atmosphere
holding their own
and reciting
the steps
fingers wrapping
contorting
“we have found trees here”
wet and
dripping
from paper
night before, in dark masks
fill warm night air
—on the presuppose of rain—
with loathing
but love as
well
holding out
simply to keep
a promise
to bad
here it goes.
Again.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Miles Joris-Peyrafitte.

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