The game of erasing yelling
By Scott Ferry
It started one night, the 10,000th night of fighting,
M and I began to soften the ribs of the clock,
to allow miscounts, delays, skipped clicks of the fingers.
After the Carnage
By Tom Daley
Venus and Jupiter colluding
in the cool tureen of the summer solstice.
And the killer with his pageboy haircut,
resolute as dusty jewels or red pepper,
the myrrh of his indignation
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