The knife in my hand does all the talking. Flesh separates clean.The floor
sick with feathers.
What silence. But for the slight popping and snapping. Light is a deaf,
Through the kitchen window, I can see a man singing in the distance. His
arms rise and fall
beneath a row of white birch trees. Blood on my eyelids and hands. Blood
runs dark and quick
to the drain. The man whirls as he walks under the trees. August and the
blackberry feast of summer
drowns the afternoon with wings.
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