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M O T I O N M A K E S U S C O U G H Emotion is more electrical, our foot caught on the cord, the blink we have to take. Don’t explain, says the little bird. Don’t tell who we are either. Up and down the tarmac fly guns in crates like sausages, links of what we think we need. Not me, not me, chirps the chirper. But there we are, yelling again, or crying, or frying— blinking. Manmade fritz lies behind muscle and even brain. Why, that smile, while not shocking, belies emotion’s grounding: sic, read as written, if we can, with these dark plugs out. We will still cough. 18 ...

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