Holding-Off-the-Horror Things
Her fingers kneading my ear, working its whorls slowly outward.
A subway car full of faces, each one exceeding every name in the world.
Indigo.
Crows at work dividing the world into dull and shiny.
A little boy off the sidewalk in the alcove of a store, looking at himself in the huge windows shouting and whirling, jumping and strutting.
The peeling-the-orange festival of fragrance and moist color.
A . .
. . Z
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