Returning to the conversation on braiding horse manes with cold hands, I lean heavy on the yard post

 
 

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Tonight I invite you to resist your favorite snowflake, and party like it’s mushroom cloud time. Treat your body like a twin sister fosters stolen glitter gel, circa 1995, and introduce your elbows to the disco. Baby blue bedrooms and bird atlases notify the horseshoe: a pocket full of chicken bones, and a disfigured cranial dome alters fate better than a titmouse nesting in cellophane chalices on the mantle filled with boy toys. Honeysuckle, laughable cadaver, I disguise myself as the Tin Man and take a seat in the sun by the water tank to accept the beginning of my transition into an autumn bouquet. What soft will we sink our face into when the little tin nurse wakes us like romance?

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