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  • Lauren Sartor



You can distill

Thursday until it fits in a mason jar. Take out the immaterial— the side of the refrigerator, the table and chairs, the three companions. Suck out the movement so inside fits only the essence of you with a raised pipe, carved like a tree branch. Your wide-rimmed eyes stares at the flame, the only thing that casts a shadow.

—Lauren Sartor


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