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When walking hope is a swagger
When sleeping hope is a lullaby
When breathing hope is oxygen
When drunk hope. . .
He removed himself with his hands, an effort not unnoticed.
People threw shells, congotronic drumming looped
from. . .
We found her in Socorro etched
on a tombstone in a cemetery that’s changed
public and private hands, though it’s. . .
Rethinking inscrutability in two recent festival hits.
Short fiction by Asher Dark.
On Lionel Shriver’s stale contrarian schtick.