| Corinna Underwood |
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| Waste The light spilling over the window sill reminds me to turn over before I see it pool in the sheets where emptiness lies. Each morning I am beside myself. Shadows are newly poured around my face and body filling all crevices and hardening to crust. Afternoons only defer nightfall. Movements are match sticks snapping with flintless tenderness until I splinter. And from these pieces grow thorn flowers for a desert. |
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