Thursday, June 25, 2015

I don't

"I don't get sick like you"

Walking past Jack in the Box. Clacking teeth, humid, throat ache. 11 dead purple martins on its lawn. Stiff, oily, black eyes drying out. Staring around. Wondering what contaminated. Something wrong with the water. Something wrong with the air. Am I about to be in it. Hands palm up without realizing. Wait starlings, not martins.

Walks by all yellow. Don't you know it's an electrical line. They were 'lectrocuted. Oh.

My friend was peeling the soles off of shoes, popping nails, brittle leather bottoms cracking, black fleck dust getting in the arm hair. Must have been 48 pairs.
(96 soles)
I counted.

If I shut my eyes I can feel the virus in a prodromal phase. As if it could wear a pair of baby boots, inside me. Picturing the pouch of stomach. A coo to a yelp. Light tap to savage slap. Evidently,

have not had enough.

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