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I found an octopus in the snow
And not knowing what it was or why it was there, I gutted it
as if a hunter
To me, up to my elbows in bladder, the ink was a surprise
I wore it like opera gloves in the moonlight
So many mistook my passion for gangrene
One followed me into an orchestra pit. If I could only say now
what my arms said
I took up a bassoon & aimed it at a chandelier
As the house lights came down, the audience lost their places
They were swimming in a maelstrom of inklings
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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.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.