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Brad Rose


I’m on safari.  Outside my body. Unprotected.  No SPF. You take your chances.  May be an algorithmic mistake.  I’m pursuing an animal-less circus.  Butterflies taste with their feet.  Left to my own devices, I’m ones and zeros. Incendiary ones.  Iridescent zeros. I’m swimming in circles. y solve for x?  Is love math or arithmetic?  I’m in the pampas grass. I dream of hawks.  I’m crying hawk tears.  Now death.  Death is a mountain without a climber.  In the distance, you can see the mountain.  Close your eyes.  Imagine a spiking graph of interest rates. I remember the last words our invisible enemies said, A compressed spring always bounces back.  A window is camouflaged by its view. Of course, it’s nobody’s fault, if you can’t see it.



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