A gunshot then. Stop your bikes and let them wobble in mechanism
Then a gun watchman, hithered on the imaginary end of a macabre
lipping telescope, broke my hero into speeches.

It had to be masculine this many occasions consecutively and also diminutive from a hugeness I could not collect enough pipes and wizards on the trumpet trigger to build a trumpet or remorse or capitulate or boost my chest into order, for a basicness distortion gives, gives exegesis         Pedals coiling and scuffing the earth dust trusting lungs to come out in funicular or jigback. If I could just look to the minimalists, suss a sleek black wrist gathering the handles or clutching stacks of hourglass glasses to his grappling ribs at this one endless shop.    We looted

Harmony Holiday, “Industry” from Negro League Baseball. Copyright © 2011 by Harmony Holiday. Reprinted by permission of Harmony Holiday.
Source: Negro League Baseball (Fence Books, 2011)
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