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2 URNED BRAID If Minus writhes after a séance, mostly cloud, out in the unscreened air, bees comb his hair. Night heat made his ink weave neon. His cells grew a negative moon. Did serum sprawl during the previous incubation of The Ur-Mane? Honed nils emerged. An orange fur. Born back to beetle gel, he slit the coma’s hide.  AN EMBER When Iris was asleep, she was seeing salt, seeing what salt says it is. She was trying to explain “sistence.”There was a sifter beside her. An ember, she said. Her reading was a foam reddening, a painting over a page. A film of her tongue, an orange film. A pool to watch while the ground arrived. ...

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