| Susan Gorgioski |
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| Alchemy of Movement This earth, which is not earth, a mirror of faces, hollow mouths, bones spent and undressed. One step back, one step into yesterday, red earth offered him arbour. Now, glass, mimics life: projects his pallid desire. He always slept on the side of the bed closest to the door. Drawn to the bulb in the hallway, drawn to the window. Yesterday, the butcher spat in sawdust, washed his apron, threw the knife away. The bed in this room is bolted to the floor. He can't see out; can't see through. Time becomes glass only in his hands. Behind the window, six mountains wait on the doorstep: earth, which is not earth: soft, light, transparent. |
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