Aaron Shurin

Sat in front of the window box speckled with narration — cotyledon turbine, etc. — looking for a twitch in the soil — pattern repository — or the periscope of morning… Made a new city, then, a jumble of colored houses down a hillside — to stand up and go out and walk along — in another tongue, resistant, fertile, florid idiom — clustered torches — flash… Talked, then, hammered by stuttering silences but mouthing thick consonants like fresh bread, a distant calculus of yeast and sound — listened from the trembling core the mute still air stirred — template drift — generation — as if of spring… speaking…




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