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As if Pan’s shadow,

sighs peel from tongues, contracting

the afterparty

to other galaxies, stars

gust by torrid breath.

Flaps:

I eat canyons folded like empanadas.

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I am pulled into

individual pieces

woven back in thirds

forced through an eye, dragged over

and under till my face is

drawn taut with forced smile, behind

is all thread, no brain.