On earth flowers bloomed. What blooms here?
Wowflower | Self-Portrait
I map my own inner labyrinth, sometimes, by wandering someone else’s. Sound is the architectural self-portrait of the new impressionists in the interspace. Gesso and oil color flicked, spilled, and sprayed across the plaster cracking in the artist’s bedroom. You find the room, him or her, and you love him. Or her. The dust is
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1.7.11
Mo asked and the specks of light parted across the ten inches between his mouth and hers, “It was last night, no?”
1.7.10
Four lungs shared the constellations of dead skin, scented by the laundry sheets tumbling behind the walls, fabric folding over itself again and again in a droll story.
1.7.9
Dust in Mo’s foyer tickled the oxygen in languid currents when they walked through, and kicked again into a new galactic spiral when the door shut, sealing in the air.