Fragments from the clouds of rust that fall away from imploded stars arrive with the wind that comes hissing in fingers through the windows bringing a virus that replicates in the light bulbs that hang overhead from wires. Now there is something pulsing in the shovel against the window and its pompadour of snow.
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55 words(-ish).
Another element in the series of Event Particles.
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"clouds of rust" - lovely
I really like "the wind that comes hissing in fingers." Great images throughout.
thanks for the reads and comments. i appreciate them. working with this tiny form is an interesting constraint...it puts alot of pressure on imagery in part because it creates negative space. i suppose they're like poems that you can deny are poems if anyone asks you. poetry? not me...