No make-up no genre

Seats cave us toward the center, the angle of below. We knead some physics. Foreheads furrow and the girl appears to stammer. Who among us arrives aware. Ushers guide us through aisles, by our wrists. To blink is to shut the eyes. Compose again. Hope tectonics. This is vision this is precipice this is the wondrous longing of posture.

Lucas Farrell, “Generation of Bird,” The Many Woods of Grief (University of Massachusetts Press).

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