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Poem: Paper Masks 

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

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Miles Joris-Peyrafitte.


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