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LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village
POEM It begins in the light and ends with fizz done. A pacification of strife? A marred, stem-like blade? A worrying of one's own driest oughts? Mirror of pedantic arrows, with security smashed upon "presence"? No. A wide enemy dumbstruck, or noose that stays loose. Clamorous undertow of scoured ceilings; the home a blast between two purposes instead of two cages. A lone and merry slaying of dilution. It wakes a thing clapping: it thrives in the chalet of its breaking.