🔒 In Fuguing Wake

(Amy Clampitt, for you) Casual. Flitting skin off cucumbers over a wide metal bowl, catcher for the harvest from the summer market, that cosmos of virtue β€” jug bands, frailed banjos, picked mandolins, tomatoes as a toddler sees them, mitts of stars β€” I feel a comet trail of shiver where my sternum is, that bone high-school posters flat out to a Roman sword, but dug up horrors prove as dropping bombs. I know it’s nothing serious, which worries. I’m known to be pulled along and flipped in fuguing wake. It’s good this happened at the sink, at evening, with time before the white flock orchestra descends the grass drifts through the shrub maze of picknickers and their pickneys on Tanglewood’s lawn. Shed bound! Music in hand and jaw muscles; the old estate spellcast as something sacral near Kripalu’s mount where stone hips cleave. I’ll be there in the back

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