Lindsay Daigle 9


One of the muses plays the drums. She likes

most things and factory smoke. I say to her

I like pairs. I dress my bullets up in dance

tunes and wait. She manufactures

a kick, is sort of funny, umbrella-catches

bodies before they come. She makes them

define space, hands them scissors. My room

bangs walls like the bridge, like the moment

her call fevers a shuffling release and says.

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