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51 Isolation My bones confess I have bullied too many rooms, assassinations in Spartan luxury as the pulse of broken feathers tantalized. Meanwhile I question fingernails, shape clouds into facetious onions, pantomime for flies circling with messages of blood. I negotiate with socks, trick bottles with a staunch tongue (of black apples and eucalyptus), strangle underpants in asthmatic sinks of granite. My logic is the swallow’s logic, more graceful in valleys than fields, my mouth a clock, bored. I gamble mornings with bees yellow-toed in butter as cadavers polish coffeepots. Always, I crook fingers to punch the brain like a cash register, keys streaked of copper and phosphorous, sunset after the war’s delirious rain. ...

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