“
Flash aimed at the soul; camera arrowed
into a vista of dark trees. And the light
reveals nothing—only a gnawing
strangeness. And it’s hard to see,
and the grief is so arcane it seems
it existed since the crush of the first ocean’s
first wave, and so new, it seems it’s ready
to burst from the earth ready
to devour all of time in its throat.
— Brennan Sprague, “November,” from a manuscript-in-progress, 2021
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