Amy Crutchfield
A gang of cones hangs before me, long and cylindrical,
neither dark nor light – the colour of Milchkaffee.
One would overfill my palm. Last night the field
reinvented itself as one of those beds we lie down in
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A gang of cones hangs before me, long and cylindrical,
neither dark nor light – the colour of Milchkaffee.
One would overfill my palm. Last night the field
reinvented itself as one of those beds we lie down in