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3:27 a.m. - 2002-09-05
Grave
this is an assembly grave. she is packed, canned, chosen for 'best quality'. she is sent through the de reguer, sent to be digested with mediocre pinot grigio and surface conversation in america's favorite suburbs. she fishtails on the line, knowing that this is not like the other. she is skimming the wrong waves. out of water, the ravens flock, like before. nevermore, nevermore. but this is just bit of foam cresting; this is just sea legs beaching themselves on cul-de-sacs and classrooms. she is a steady girl, built to withstand the shudders passing off from bow to portside. port wine. two glasses a night, one for the smoke and mirrors, one for the roar of the overpass while she sits silent, waiting. there is no bait. there is no sea. it's all gone quiet; she breathes softly, carefully. this is an assembly grave.

 

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