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In the impossible, we bring home to roost
a discordant feeling—widow buttons in all black
still with our funeral rings.
As “a stone in love” with falling, “I wound the water’s face”
Then wear the mask of water all the way. . .
After a friend tells me names and dreams occupy the same part of the brain, which is why we forget both.
Rethinking inscrutability in two recent festival hits.
Short fiction by Asher Dark.
On Lionel Shriver’s stale contrarian schtick.