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The trip to the bottom was short and jolting
back down in her own hot mess
too steep and too slippery to re-climb
too dark to see

But what about The Special Thing?
                    the cold voice said
The world is a worst-case scenario, and
I'm afraid all you sense is true.

There is nothing but bone and the God we share.
No butterflutters. No meaty hiccups
way down deep.

Stillness came from the shoulders,
it spun out from there,
it cooled and focused you.

dreamlike now, the voices of ghosts
feasting on her blood and sweat

The air fell still . . . then it was not still.

The sound of twigs breaking
sharp as needles
behind Dad's little house in Malden.

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