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Untitled
Robert Strong




Buffer of curtain between the sun & us. Our eyeballs are inside. Off fleur, off foliage, the rods & cones find a cool silence in shadow. But the glow is like butter, it has the look-smell of physical & lit fatfuzz. You can see how some have called it love. There's chlorophyll beyond it, a random aria of aching petals, white-patterns of trillium teeming the forest floor. Four doors down on the right is where we urinate indoors under fluorescent light. You'll see the flicker & flush. Later in the afternoon, we open up if the air eases off. The blinds get doffed & fine motes finally cross over. All morning, that purgatory had been maintained in light of the distracting qualities of brilliance. The luscious sections of today have trotted on without being tried, without being unpetrified from my blind & double-pane window. Trace webs scathe their ultraviolet glaze. They duet the two temperatures now vetting them like a string quartet caught in the bad castle's afternoon cloak & dagger. They just float there in the motes. The lord's mad borderlight will not last-master's making hash for the horizon. He can, ruthless, maim-a-day, send you to your bedroom. It gets cooler. Out the window, the pace of an arrow's path, the pinewoods reach & breathe for the last scraping horizontal taste of light.














































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