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She’s nearing stone, dirt-dried hair.
The bird in her chest a bankrupt
conductor, improvising. A lunar
river seeks to collect her, garnishes
grass banks with murk. Tonquin Mountain
sharpens its trap, there is no escape
from this one song, a collection
of end notes, a crawl space of spirals
performing the passage to sleep.
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Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.