BLIGHT OF THE JUNIPER
The room was filled with general impulses.
With some difficulty, Gillian reset the blown fuse in her imagination.
I, too, was feeling around in the dark corner for a bright thought.
I foamed iridescently like an outdated dishwasher.
Breakfast sausage would be served into the usual mouths.
A shy hiccup echoed down the tiled hall.
The only—ah-hem—symbolism is a doorway.
It walks us home from the party where everyone else is a lawyer.
TYPO
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