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Mary Winifred Hood


Going Under

The blue dirt black dirt black hair blue hands of one descending, sealed in glass, his heart slowed to the edge of dying, the blood oozing through the body's branches like mud, a violent red spreading underneath with the delicacy of spiders traversin [...]


I The cloth the ship the clock the oath rope a noose waiting like a snake What is treasured In a pillowcase in a dream The floor green soft with plants Diamonds the swans found in the weeds a piece of hair coiled in a locket a thigh a river a branch [...]