From a rotting mound of letters — lots of ds, hooks of es, bits of zs — a little puff of a sentence escapes: a silly little puff, a little smelly puff, what it says, it can’t say, what it knows, it won’t show.
Nose knows, humbly, like a kiwi bird coming out of its hole at night to dig its beak into the dirt. Like yeongrak wriggling as a worm into the beak, gobbled and split and sealed back up with an elbowful of spit.
I’m thinking of a little bit of scurvy, of a plum on my beak, a grape in my seat sat on with and eek! and squished into sound:
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