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John Leavitt is a writer and artist. He lives in New York City.
Until I reached the paddock
where the gelding grey
collapsed, back hooves
clacking like stones to. . .
Across the river her voice sends shreds
torn from something gelid, all acute
angles though the surface of each. . .
when his fork clinks against the breakfast plate,
my day is lit by a covetous rage, a fist swollen with
Roughly half a century after it first emerged, folk horror is back.
Depressed by the burden of life under capitalism? There's an app for that!
Is the Supreme Court beyond repair?